


Tinker Tailor Lover Spy

by edenforest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1960s, Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Mild Smut, Sharing a Bed, Undercover, adding tags as I go so I don't spoil anything beforehand, bathing together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 42,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8554792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenforest/pseuds/edenforest
Summary: Sometimes I doesn't matter how you end up in somewhere if you like being in there





	1. Fiancée

**Author's Note:**

> Advent calendar. New chapter every day until 25th and the last one on 31st.
> 
> So there is no spies. There is spying and being undercover and mission, but no actual spies. The story I came up with just worked better without trying to deal with all the added troubles this situation would bring if the people involved would be spies. That's why no spy AU.

First thing Illya noticed was the headache. Only after that he noticed his eyes were still closed and he started to crack them open. They seemed reluctant to do so and for a moment he gave up and allowed them to stay shut. He listened to the surroundings; it was quiet but somewhere farther he could hear talking and footsteps. He suspected a wall separated him from the noises. Illya pursed his lips, moved his tongue in his dry mouth. Slowly he opened his eyes again.

White ceiling. It took a while for his eyes to focus on it and after that he tilted his head slightly to see what else was there. His body felt heavy when he tried to move it. He was in a hospital room. The door was slightly ajar and muffled most of the noises from the corridor. Illya frowned and he stared at his body under the blanket. Momentarily the thought that he may have been paralyzed worried him. But then his fingers started to take orders from him, clench a little, then the toes. He let his head relax against the pillow and he sighed with relief.

Now that his body had started to feel again there was a dull ache in his left hip. The leg moved so he suspected nothing had been broken. Illya wondered why he was in the hospital, he couldn't remember anything that had happened that would cause him to end up in one. He had left to go to a shop; he was supposed to buy eggs and bread. That was the last memory. Maybe it had been raining, he wasn’t sure.

The door opened and and a nurse stepped in. “You are awake,” she said. “That is good news. I will get the doctor.”

Illya hummed after her. He didn’t feel sick. Only his hip hurt and his head, and he felt a little unsteady and disoriented but other than that he couldn't say why he was there. An older man in a white coat came in. “Why am I here?” he asked, barely getting the words out of his mouth. He cleared his throat to get his voice to work, repeated the sentence because he was sure he had said it in Russian and continued: “What happened?”

“You got hit by a car,” the doctor said. “Nasty blow on your head, bruise on your thigh. Let’s see,” he muttered. A couple of nurses adjusted the bed and tilted Illya almost to a sitting position. Hot pain rushed through his hip and Illya suppress a groan. The nurses left and the doctor examined his eyes with a pen light. Illya had to blink his eyes to get the dark spot to disappear from his vision afterwards.

“Nothing's broken,” the doctor informed. “You were very lucky.”

“When did this happen?” Illya asked and wondered how long he had been there.

“About four hours ago,” the doctor said and looked at the clipboard on the end of his bed. “That is when you were brought in. You have been unconscious the whole time. Do you remember the accident?”

“No,” Illya had to confess.

“And your name?” the doctor made sure.

“Illya Kuryakin,” he said.

The first nurse returned to the room and brought a brunette with her. Illya turned to look at the woman; she had fashionable bangs, brown eyes, pink cheeks, and wore a colourful, short dress.

“Your fiancée has waited for you to wake,” the nurse said.

“I was so worried,” the brunette said, with a accent in her voice. A quick smile flashed on her lips. She walked to the bed, leaned closer. Her hand took a gentle hold on Illya’s shoulder when she came next to him, her lips pressed a kiss on his cheek.

Illya looked at her when she pulled back. Very pretty, petite and cute. Gold ring on her warm hand that stayed on his shoulder. His fiancée.

“Will he be okay?” she asked the doctor. 

“Yes, yes,” the doctor assured her paternally. “He is young and fit. That kind of bruise will heal in no time.”

Illya realized he was still staring at the woman next to him and turned his head away.

“Will he heal for Christmas?” the woman continued.

Her thumb stroked Illya’s shoulder gently even while she looked the doctor. Little strokes, a whisper more than real touch, soft and caring. Illya looked at her hand, the gold band on her finger, black stains on her fingertips, like she had been doing something dirty.

“Of course,” the doctor promised.

“We have plans,” she explained. “Right, Illya?”

Illya frowned. “I… I don’t remember.”

She chuckled slightly. “Is that your attempt to wiggle your way out of if?” she inquired but looked amused.

Illya gazed at her face again. He tried to recognize something, some detail. Her brown eyes, the little smile on the corner of her lips, the arc of her neck, her German accent, something. But where there should've been a fiancée in his memories was only empty space. “I don’t remember you,” he blurted out more bluntly than he meant.

The brunette turned to look at him and smiled a little. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “I’m Gaby. You know me. We are engaged.”

“You don’t remember your fiancée?” the doctor asked and looked serious.

“No,” Illya admitted.

“Are you going to claim that it’s 1960 next?” them woman who called herself Gaby asked and her other brow rose.

“I do know it is 1961,” Illya said, a little annoyed.

Gaby frowned and looked worried. “Are you serious?”

Illya looked at her and then the doctor, who gestured to the nurse while he wrote notes on his papers. “Could you get Sanders?” he muttered to the nurse.

“It is 1961,” Illya repeated. “Yes?”

“1963,” the doctor muttered and continued writing into his papers.

“You really don’t remember,” Gaby sighed and stared at him, her eyes wide.

Illya huffed frustrated. “Is this a joke?” he insisted, annoyed. Gaby’s hand slipped away off his shoulder when she backed away from him and left the room. Illya looked after her, the sound of her heels clacking against the corridor carried away farther, finally disappearing. He didn't blame her for leaving. The situation was weird. Illya couldn’t remember her and if she really was his fiancée it must have been hard when somebody you were getting married to suddenly couldn't remember you. To his surprise the sound of her heels reappeared, came closer and she stepped back inside of the room and handed a folded newspaper to him.

“Look at yourself,” she said.

Illya took the newspaper and looked the date on top of the title.  _ December 1st 1963 _ , The Times was telling to him. Illya had a habit of believing what Times told him and now it was telling that he had forgot two years and a whole fiancée from his life.

“I asked a specialist here,” the doctor said. “He probably will recommend more examinations. Let’s find out is everything like it should be. You seem to have quite extensive amnesia.”

“Is it permanent?” Gaby demanded and crossed her arms and looked at the doctor like she was accusing him.

Illya looked at her again; it was hard not to stare at somebody who he had asked to marry him but also only met the first time. He was happy she was asking questions that felt like important ones to ask. He didn’t feel quite himself and it was relieving that somebody was there asking those. She seemed efficient. Illya liked her and didn’t wonder why he was with her. But while looking at her he couldn’t help but to think why was she with him? She looked very nice, how did he ever manage to get a fiancée that nice? Her lips were pressed into a tight line now but only moments ago she had pressed those against his skin. Illya wondered how many times she had kissed him. It felt a sad thing to forget.

“No, of course not,” the doctor said again, slightly condescending like he was trying to make her believe that she didn’t need to worry her pretty little head about this. Illya expected that he used that tone often when he talked to women who still looked like girls. But Gaby seemed more like somebody who wanted real answers instead of coddling.

The door opened again and Illya frowned at the visitor. “Cowboy?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m wondering that too,” Napoleon sighed and walked to the bed. “I was having a very pleasant evening. Did you really try to stop a car with yourself? That was stupid now was it?”

Illya’s brows knitted even more when he stared at Cowboy. “How you are even in the city? You left when we finished that office building in Southbank.”

Napoleon tilted his head. “That was almost two years ago,” he said.

“Illya doesn’t really remember the last few years,” Gaby said. “Right now at least.”

Napoleon turned to face Gaby and looked her interested, smiled. “Napoleon Solo,” he introduced himself and offered his hand.

“This is Gaby,” Illya said when Cowboy clearly hadn't met her. Saying her name was almost difficult when it felt like he said it the first time. “She is my… fiancée.”

Napoleon glanced at him surprised. “Fiancée? Well, you have been keeping her all to yourself,” he said and let Gaby’s hand go.

“I have heard about you,” Gaby said and smiled a little. “Cowboy this, Cowboy that. It’s Illya’s favourite subject.”

“What?” Illya huffed and his jaw tightened when Napoleon grinned at him. “That is a… that is not true,” he insisted.

“I’m going to ask all outsiders to leave,” the doctor said. “You can go sit in the waiting room. The nurses will keep you up to date.”

Gaby hummed, displeased, and for a moment Illya was sure she would insist on staying. But she did follow Cowboy out of the room. She quickly glanced over her shoulder before disappearing, looked right into Illya, made a tiny little twitch with her lips, as if to say everything would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta thanks to MollokoPlus


	2. Stranger

“He doesn’t remember the last two years?” Napoleon asked when he and Gaby walked in the waiting room. There was only few people besides them in the early hours of the day. He wanted coffee, but there was only a soda machine. He bought one, opened the cap against it and handed the glass bottle to Gaby like a gentleman. He bought another one for himself.

“I guess so,” Gaby said quietly. “He hit his head.”

“Did you see the accident?” Napoleon asked and looked Gaby from head to toes. More cute than stylish, looked tired. “What happened?”

Gaby sighed. “We stepped into an alley from behind dumpsters and there was car coming and the driver couldn’t brake in time. It was already dark, the driver didn't see us before Illya was already in front of it. It was an accident. They managed to barely brake and turn the car enough so that they only bumped at him. But the impact still made him crash into the street. It looked bad, I was sure he was dead. I don’t think my heart has ever beat that fast.”

“Did you see the car?” Napoleon asked.

Gaby glanced him quickly and nodded slightly, kept picking the soda bottle label with her thumbnail.

“You should give the description to the police,” Napoleon said.

“I did,” Gaby assured. “The police were here already. While Illya was unconscious.”

“Did the car just drive off?” Napoleon asked and was annoyed by that.

“They…” Gaby sighed and closed her eyes for a moment and took air to her lungs and tried to calm her pounding heart and the anxiety she feared might burst right out of her at any given minute. “It was an accident. He stepped right in front of the car from behind the dumpsters. The driver couldn't get the car stop fast enough. There wasn't any room in the alley to dodge. And it was already dark.”

Napoleon nodded and continued looking at her. “You know, Peril isn't one for sharing,” Napoleon noted and sat down. “We occasionally work in the same projects, but truth to be told we don’t always get along so well. So I don’t know that much about his life. A little, but then I don’t think there is that much to know. And to anybody else your performance would've been a hit. You would've been his fiancée because if there is somebody who would have a secret fiancée it would be Peril,” Napoleon explained and Gaby swallowed slowly. “But when I few days ago said to him that maybe he should have some fun for a change, maybe ask some girl out, he ordered me to mind my own business. And even if he had managed to keep a fiancée a secret until then, he would mentioned if he had one. To get me off his back, if not for any other reason.”

Gaby pursed her mouth, looked tense and changed her weight for one leg to another, kept picking at the label.

“Also I think I’m his in-case-of-an-emergency person,” Napoleon said, frowning. “That is very sad.” He stared at the wall and wondered was it sad only for Peril or also for himself. He turned back to look at Gaby. “So, who are you?” he wanted to know. “Why did you tell you were his fiancée? Do you even know him?”

Gaby huffed nervously. “No,” she admitted. “I was there when it happened. And… I was worried. He hit his head and I wanted to know would he be okay. So I said that I was his fiancée so I could get in the ambulance with him and then again in here so that the nurses would keep me posted. I was going to leave as soon as he wakes but then the nurse said I could see him and I couldn't leave. That would've been weird,” Gaby explained and sat in the chair next to Napoleon. “And then she introduced me as his fiancée so I… kept pretending.”

“What were you going to do when Peril couldn't remember you?” Napoleon asked, interested.

Gaby shrugged. “To be honest I was going to stick to my story and claim that maybe he had an amnesia.”

Napoleon looked at her and lifted his brows a little, judging.

“I know it was a stupid plan. But then it turned out he really did had an amnesia,” Gaby sighed disbelieving.

“You were very convincing,” Napoleon praised. “You looked at me and without a pause said that you had heard about me. So very natural. Peril bought your act completely. Big risk. You have balls.”

Gaby hummed and wasn’t really feeling so good that she could appreciate Napoleon's praises. She peeled most of the label off the soda bottle and kept picking at the rest of it, sat stiffly on the edge of her chair.

Napoleon examined her anxious body language and frantic eyes. “It was you, wasn't it?” he said when he realized why she was so anxious. “You hit him with your car.”

“He came out of nowhere, I couldn’t get the car stopped,” Gaby sighed, her voice trembling. “I got out of the car and went to him. I was sure he was dead. And then people started to appear and everybody asked me what had happened. I didn’t understand before I realized that I had stopped the car right behind another one. The door was closed and the headlights off; it looked like it was parked. No one had seen me,” Gaby let everything out. “And I didn't’ tell anybody it was me,” she confessed, ashamed. “And then I lied to the police about it, gave the wrong description. I thought that it didn’t really matter if he just wakes up. So I waited and he did wake. But then he had forgotten two years of his life,” Gaby muttered and twisted her hands. “All the memories from that time. What if he never gets them back? I took them from him.”

Napoleon sighed and hummed, really not knowing what to do with all the information. He sipped his soda, glanced it and set it down on the little table next to them and forgot about it. “Well at least you didn't take anything that important,” he said when Gaby looked so troubled about it. “You didn’t take any relationships from him. I think his work has been relatively normal so no big things there. Maybe few good meals and the joy he gets when he wins a game of chess. But then he plays against himself so he basically wins every time.”

Gaby looked at Napoleon. “What should I do?”

Napoleon frowned and looked back at her. “Why do you ask me?”

“They called you, your number is somewhere in his papers,” Gaby pointed out. “You are friends.”

“No, I don’t think so, we barely get along,” Napoleon said. “I really think he just doesn’t have anybody else.”

“I should tell what happened,” Gaby decided. She didn’t want to but she knew it was the right thing to do. “And hope I can get away from most of the charges for acting like a hysterical woman.”

Napoleon pursed his mouth. Gaby still sat on the edge of the chair and looked troubled but he was sure she would snap right out of it if the occasion called for it. She had lied so naturally and believably to him, calmly took a huge risk in front of Peril and the hospital staff and claimed to know everybody. Napoleon admired her boldness. It’s not like his own moral values were high enough that he could judge anybody who was trying to deal with a messy situation. And she may have lied but she also came to the hospital, kept lying to the nurses and the police so she could wait there for Peril to wake. She even had a gold ring on her finger.

“Where did you get the ring?” Napoleon wondered. “And how did you know who he was?”

“He had business cards in his pocket. The ring I changed from one finger to another,” Gaby said. “It’s not even real gold.”

Napoleon was impressed how systematically she had worked. She had probably been in shock after just hitting somebody with her car and still she had checked his pocket to see if she could find out who Peril was. Natural chameleon. Her German accent made Napoleon wonder if she was a defector from East Germany. She seemed like a tough survivor who would get herself over the wall. He pondered the options he had and made his decision. “You should tell him the truth,” Napoleon said.

Gaby nodded and was terrified how that would turn out.

“In January,” Napoleon continued.

Gaby’s brows frowned and she turned to look at him. “What do you mean in January?”

“Like I said, you didn't took that much from his life,” Napoleon said. “It’s quite boring I would say. And severe. Mostly it’s his own fault. He is his own biggest enemy. But I think he could benefit from a month of a different kind of life.”

“You want me to continue lying for a month?” Gaby asked disbelieving.

Napoleon nodded. “You are very good at it. I don’t think you have any problems with it. And it’s only a month.”

“A month of pretending to be somebody's fiancée,” Gaby pointed out. “I can’t -”

“Maybe you’d rather explain to the police why you gave the wrong description of the car and how it was really you who hit him?” Napoleon suggested and looked smug when Gaby’s face sank. He sighed when he felt himself a very good person indeed. He had just given Peril a fiancée for a month. It was the nicest Christmas present he had ever given to anybody and he wasn't even sure if Peril celebrated Christmas. He looked around in the waiting room at the few people there with them. “Sick people make me sad,” he muttered. “Everybody looks so frumpy. Why is that?”

“They are sick. They don’t care what they look like,” Gaby said and glared at him, unhappy that he had blackmailed her into a situation which would probably end up in a horrible mess.

Napoleon didn't notice that. “Sounds like an excuse,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: the plot twist


	3. Mechanic

Gaby gathered herself before entering the hospital room. Everything was fine, she reassured herself. She had gone through everything in her head, she had a plan. She knew how to act, she would be relaxed and natural. She hadn't forgot about Illya, she would act like a fiancée. She opened the door and stepped in. Illya turned to look at her when she walked to the bed.

“How are you feeling?” Gaby asked as a greeting. She set her hand without hesitation on his shoulder like the first time, ducked down and kissed his cheek. She sat on the edge of the bed and tilted her head waiting him to answer.

“Fine,” Illya answered and suddenly frowned when he remembered the situation. “Except I do not remember the last two years.”

Gaby nodded. “And your hip? Is that better?”

“Little,” Illya said. It was weird that there was somebody asking about his condition, sitting on his hospital bed, looking at him, kissing his cheek. He had been mostly alone always and now suddenly there was a fiancée who was interested in his well-being.

“Did your examinations tell something new?” Gaby kept asking, trying to sound worried but still light because she thought she should sound like she was trying to be hopeful as if she expected his memories to return any minute now. Of course she wanted his memories to return, but right now it was beneficial for her that he didn’t remember that he really didn’t have a fiancée.

“No,” Illya said. “They found nothing. I just can not remember.”

“I’m sure you will,” Gaby said and set her hand on Illya’s hand on top of his blanket.

Illya couldn't stop himself from looking at her hand over his own. Small, warm hand, fingers curling slightly under his palm, touching him very naturally and gently. It felt nice. He lifted his eyes back to her face. She was beautiful, she had sharp eyes but still she looked back to him very gently. Illya was frustrated that he couldn't remember her. He glanced at her lips and wondered again how many kisses he had forgotten. He couldn't remember what she tasted or smelled like. He thought of all the other things he had possibly lost forever. Had he forgot how she looked naked? He frowned as more and more things popped into his head. Touches and sounds; fingertips brushing his skin, quietly whispered secrets under the blankets. Or maybe they hadn't been under the same blanket. He wanted to ask. She was his fiancée so they had probably talked about things like that before and it wouldn't be a problem. And yet Illya couldn't get himself to ask. He felt awkward with her when he didn’t know what they had done together. He looked at the gold ring on her finger.

“How long we have been together?” Illya asked when he realized he didn’t know even that.

“Little over a year,” Gaby said. “We had our anniversary about a month ago. You proposed.”

Illya nodded when Gaby answered his next question. He was going to ask more, but she continued telling things she assumed he would ask.

“You rear ended a truck one night and your car was brought in our garage,” Gaby said. “You said that I was the most expensive mechanic in London.”

“You are mechanic?” Illya asked surprised. Gaby was small and petite and didn't look like he imagined mechanics to look like.

Gaby nodded. “I fixed your car. You came in to check it. First it was because you wanted to see was I doing a good job, but then I think you only wanted to see me,” she said and smiled a little.

“Did I ask you out?” Illya asked.

“I did,” Gaby decided. Illya seemed little old-fashioned and she felt like it would do him good to give the lead to a girl. “You later said that you were going to ask, if I hadn't beat you to it,” she gave in, “but the car was finished and I didn’t want to take the chance that you wouldn't ask me. I was about to leave for home so we went to dinner in a pub. It was nice.”

It sounded nice to Illya too.

“You didn’t kiss me afterwards,” Gaby said lightly, teased even. “You made me wait until the third date.”

Illya cleared his throat and felt embarrassed about something he couldn't remember. “I have to be here a few more days,” he said to change that subject. “There is not much to do.”

“Do you want me to bring you something?” Gaby asked. “Something to read?”

“I was reading  _ The Death of Ivan Ilyich _ ,” Illya told. “It is on my nightstand. Maybe you could get that from the library. I don’t know if they have the original, but a English translation is fine.”

“Or I can pick your copy from your nightstand,” Gaby suggested. “Just give your keys,” she said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. 

Illya hesitated for a moment. He opened the drawer on the nightstand next to his hospital bed where the things from his pockets were. He took his keys and weighed them in his hand in order to kill some time. Finally he handed them to Gaby. Giving his keys to her was probably a normal thing to do and she dropped them in her handbag very casually. Illya had never given his keys to anybody, to him it felt like a big step; to give somebody access to his world without him being there.

“What’s your address again?” Gaby asked. “I’m not sure do I remember what street and apartment it was. I only visited once and it was almost a year ago.”

Illya told her the address. “Unless I have moved in the last few years,” he muttered.

“You haven't,” Gaby said and hoped that he really hadn't. She took hold of his hand. She had noticed that it seemed to distract Illya and if he was distracted he wouldn’t maybe ask questions she didn’t know the answers to. Luckily now she had his keys and she could boldly ransack his apartment and learn everything the place could tell about him. That eased her. Next time she would know more about Illya and she would be a better fiancée.

“I guess we spend time in your place,” Illya said when it was obvious that they weren't doing it in his apartment. He sort of understood why.

Gaby nodded. “You haven’t been sleeping there for months.”

“We sleep together?” Illya asked. “Next to each other?” he corrected, a little uneasy.

“Yes,” Gaby said and held her smile. Illya being so unsure was relieving.

“Are we…” Illya wasn’t sure how to ask without being too blunt in case it wasn’t a subject they talk about.

“We have sex,” Gaby said directly. Illya seemed awkward with the subject and she didn't want him to be unnecessarily so. Especially when she knew what he meant even when it was hard for him to say it out loud.

Illya didn’t know how he had ever learned to talk with her. To him speaking about sex and even emotions didn’t come naturally. He felt very uneasy with the subjects. He feared he would say something wrong, sound stupid. It was easier for him to do the thing than talk about it. And Gaby looked somebody who didn’t struggle with the talking part either.

“I think we should take a break from that,” Gaby said. “You are injured and.. well, you don’t remember me. I think that would be weird. Maybe better to wait until your memories return.”

“Yes,” Illya agreed. In front of Gaby’s little smile he doubted he rarely contradicted anything she suggested. And her suggestion now made things easier; at least he wouldn't make a fool out of himself. Yet there was a part that was disappointed. The part that enjoyed her hand that was still holding his, the way she looked and talked, her straightforwardness. His mind was churning with things he had done with her; soft things and rough things. Things he maybe hadn’t done with anybody else which he now had forgotten. And all those things made Gaby so very alluring just by keeping her hand on top of his own.


	4. Spartan

The key fitted the lock and Gaby had a one thing less to worry about. She opened the door and stepped into Illya’s apartment. It was roughly the same size as her own which made things easier. It would’ve been hard to explain why they were spending time in her home if Illya’s place had been much bigger. But Gaby knew immediately what she would’ve used as her reason. She would’ve said that she didn’t want to live like a Spartan. Illya’s apartment was very impersonal, clinical and almost stern. It didn’t feel like a human even lived there. There were no colours or softness. Solo had let her understand that Illya’s life was very boring and joyless and his apartment supported that claim. Now Gaby wondered if the apartment would tell her anything about him. Maybe there wasn’t anything to tell.

Gaby dropped her handbag on the couch and took a deep breath. She wasn’t completely comfortable for the fact that she was going to go through everything and pull out all his secrets. But she wasn’t the one with amnesia, she needed to know things about him. Gaby started to go through places. She proceeded systematically like she was a spy in a mission. She went through cupboards, shelves, and drawers. She pulled out every secret box from the back of the wardrobe, peeked in every private part of his life.

Gaby opened drawers in the living-room and started to flip through his papers. She sat on the floor and arranged the papers carefully around her so that she could put everything back like it was. She glanced over everything written in English, stopped to read when she saw some interesting words.

He was born in Moscow, July 25th, 1931. Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin. His father had died in 1943 and mother in 1948. Gaby chewed her bottom lip and felt like she was crossing some line when she read about where he had been treated for his mental problems. It started a year before his father's death and continued three years. He had visited or stayed in eleven institutions in that time. Electroshock treatments, long list of medications, pages of text in Cyrillic that Gaby couldn’t understand and that relieved her. It didn’t seem like anything she really wanted to know. There was a lump in her throat. She slowly opened Illya up, piece by piece, regretted it and still carried on. He had studied in the University of Georgia and then Cambridge. He had moved to London in 1956, worked in Karr & Gerber & Brown for five years. His finances were in good order.

His wardrobe indicated that he prefered dark colours, didn’t own that much but kept his clothes well. He had several flat caps on the coatrack. Gaby tried them on, looked at herself in the mirror close to the front door. He had trophies from chess, judo and speed boating, but those were hidden in cupboards. Apparently he was good at everything and didn’t want anybody to know that. He liked to read his books in Russian. He was neat and organized. He had a picture of his family on top of a side table; he was little and held his father's hand. His father had been tall like he was.

In the kitchen cupboard there was a jar of honey next to teabags. In the sink was a blue ceramic mug. All his other dishes were white and impersonal.

Gaby went to his desk and flipped through his notebooks and sketchbooks. She liked his drawings. There were always trees or peoples or clouds in the sky in the pictures, never only the buildings. Pieces of real life. Gaby’s lips curled into a little smile when she found something in common she could use. He had a few handbills from ballets in a pile of miscellaneous papers. They had both seen Firebird in spring. She wondered had they maybe been in the Opera house at the same time. Had she turned her head in the foyer at the wrong moment and missed seeing him? Would he have liked the red dress she had worn? She could say they had gone together. She would also say that he had liked that dress. There was no reason to think otherwise. It was a nice dress.

She looked around and drew a picture of Illya in her mind. A picture of how he did things, how his apartment was arranged; the water glass on the nightstand, neatly folded undershirts in the drawer, pajama pants under his pillow. Gaby took  _ The Death of Ivan Ilyich _ from his bookcase. He had read it two years ago so it wouldn’t be on his nightstand. Now there was Faulkner, a bookmark between the pages. He was halfway through.

Gaby used all afternoon to go through Illya’s things, studied him like she was going to take an exam about him, learned him like a new skill. His apartment maybe was bare but he was there, hiding like he was living some weird half life, but still there. He was somebody who was uneasy when she talked about sex, somebody who hadn’t had a relationship with anybody for at least a few years. According to Solo anyway. She would take the Tolstoy to him at the hospital and see if he would look different now that she knew about the electroshocks or that his father had lived two of his last years in gulag. Would he look different when she knew he also had handbills of Swan Lake in the drawer of his nightstand? So he liked ballerinas, that made things much easier for her.

Finally she opened the big canvas bag she had brought with her and packed Illya with her from his apartment. She dragged the heavy bag into her car and then into her own apartment. She spread him all over it like the things had been slowly moving their way in for a year. She made room in her wardrobe, emptied a drawer for him, cleared a shelf in the bathroom medicine cabinet. The new key she had made she put with her own keys because it was shiny and scratchless. And Illya had used his key probably for months, it wouldn't look new any more. She attached the worn out key to Illya’s keychain and entwined their lives together.

 


	5. Gazer

Illya wasn’t sure if the decision to go with Gaby was the right one. But he had basically lived there before and the doctor recommended that he didn't stay alone if that was possible. And maybe it would be easier; his hip was still very sore, it was purply blue for a length of the whole thigh.

The first thing Illya noticed was his jacket on the coat rack. It hung there like that was it’s place, like he himself had put it there. A tangible evidence that he really had been there. They hadn’t even visited his apartment because Gaby said he had clothes at her place. Sitting in the car had made his hip ache and now even standing still hurt. Carefully he sat on the couch and positioned himself so that he could stretch the leg and ease the pain. He looked forward to going to bed and lying down. Illya hated to be so useless and weak. And he hated that Gaby was there to see it even if it was helpful not to be alone.

“Do you want a cup of tea before bed?” Gaby asked.

“Sure,” Illya said. “I take it with honey,” he continued and turned to look at Gaby, who leaned against the kitchen doorframe and looked back to him. “I do not know do you have any, but…” he slowly stopped his sentence when Gaby tilted her head at him. “But you know how I take my tea,” he realized.

“Yes,” Gaby admitted. She had suspected at least, now she knew.

Illya hummed when Gaby disappeared into the kitchen. It was odd to have somebody who knew so much about him and who he knew hardly anything. Illya looked around. Life in her place looked more colourful and relaxed than his place. Her couch was dark blue, coffee table teak. She had an ugly orange armchair with a flower pattern. He wondered why she had Russian books in her bookcase until he realized those were his books. There was pile of sketchbooks too and he slowly got up to get one. He lowered himself back on the couch and gritted his teeth because of the pain. It was his book, his writing, his sketches, but not any buildings he remembered. Dates were only a week old, so it was something he had worked on recently. That wasn’t really important now. He was on sick leave until end of the year and he didn't need to concentrate on remembering buildings or clients. He closed the book and pushed it on the coffee table.

It was strange to see his life in somebody else’s home. In his apartment his chess board had been on the edge of the coffee table, the chess pieces ready in their places. Here it leaned against books in the bookcase and the pieces were in a yellow glass bowl next to the board, like weird hard candies.

Gaby returned with the tea and handed him a mug. His blue mug that he had bought from the marketplace in Moscow. His favorite mug. Now its place was in Gaby’s kitchen and he drank his tea from it in her apartment. He blew on his tea and sipped.

“Is it too sweet?” Gaby asked. “I always make it too sweet,” she said and shrugged like it was something she had done for ages and wasn’t really sorry anymore.

“It is good,” Illya assured mostly to be polite. It was sweeter than he would’ve made but that seemed to please Gaby and he kind of wanted to please her.

Gaby blew on her own tea and tried to act like everything was normal. When the doctor had asked Illya had he some place to go so he didn't have to stay alone, of course Gaby had said that Illya could come with her. She had said that Illya had practically been living with her without thinking that much ahead. And now it meant that Illya was practically living with her. And she had said the words in the hospital so effortlessly; of course Illya would come with her. Except she had use the word “home”; of course Illya would come  _ home _ . And now he was there and her lies started to turn into reality and soon they would be sleeping in the same bed.

“Do you want your pain medication now?” Gaby asked and kept herself moving. She didn’t wait for him to answer before she was already getting the medication. Illya took the tablets without a fuss and got stiffly up from the couch. The drugs would make him drowsy and he wanted to go lie down because that didn't hurt as much as sitting.

“Do you need help changing clothes?” Gaby asked and hoped Illya was not comfortable enough with her to accept her help even if he needed it.

“I’ll manage,” Illya claimed. He was stiff and aching and he didn’t want Gaby to see him like that more than necessary.

In the bedroom he looked around like he had in the living-room. He didn’t want to ask about everything and wondered where he would keep his pajamas. A crease appeared between his brows when he noticed a framed picture on the other bedside table. It was his parents and him. He was four and held his father’s hand. There was an alarm clock set to the time he woke, Faulkner’s _The Sound and the Fury_ with a bookmark in it and a glass of water, just like he had at home. Illya pulled the bedspread and duvet aside, moved the pillow and took his pajama pants from under it. Of course the pants would be under the pillow because they were under the pillow in his apartment and everything here was weirdly similar.

He had to bend down a little to take his trousers off and his hip ached. He took a calming breath when he straightened himself and hoped the painkiller would start to work soon. He threw his trousers and shirt on a chair in the corner and grunted when bending again to get the pajama pants on. Gaby walked in just when he was straightening himself back up and he tried to look like it was easy and painless. He felt uncomfortable without a shirt and knew how silly it was; she must have seen him without a shirt probably countless times. She only glanced him without taking any interest.

“Top drawer is yours,” Gaby said and grabbed a hairbrush from a slightly messy vanity and walked out again. She made a completely unnecessary loop outside the door and paced around slowly like she was going somewhere or doing something but really only gazed at Illya, her head slightly tilted, chewing her bottom lip. Finally she bumped against the couch and felt like an idiot.

Illya opened the top drawer. His clothes were neatly folded there. Folded like he folded his clothes.

“And there is more in the wardrobe,” Gaby came to say at the door, glanced at him quickly before leaving again.

Illya didn’t go and check. He believed her. He took an undershirt and pulled it on. In the bathroom medicine cabinet was a shelf where his things were. He was all over the apartment, his life entwined with Gaby’s life. But it wasn’t the same life he had lived at his place. Here it was more relaxed, more rounded, there were no harsh edges, everything wasn't so meticulous and neat. And even when Illya liked things to be neat it didn’t bother him. Quite the opposite; the cozy life here was so deliciously wondrous that he wasn't sure how he had ever landed in it.

Gaby had called it home and when Illya carefully lowered himself onto the bed, what appeared to be his side from it, he didn't feel it yet. But he understood why he must have felt it before and he didn’t doubt that he would feel it again. He couldn’t say anymore was the amnesia only a bad thing. It felt strangely like a clean slate. So he had lost two years and the start of their relationship, but Gaby was there now, with her brown eyes and warm hands and she could tell what he had missed and he could make new memories. It was strangely calming to be a little loose from the world and his own life. There he was in somebody else’s home, living like it was his home too. He drank tea from his own mug on Gaby’s couch, his pajamas were under her pillow. Maybe it didn't matter how he had end up in that situation if he liked being in there.

The painkillers made his eyelids heavy and he let them close, let the sleep take him in. He could still hear her footsteps, running water in the kitchen, changing the television channel. Illya was wrong, it did already feel like home.


	6. Visitor

Gaby offered to make the coffee like she was a good hostess. She left setting the cups for Illya; she had washed her hands but she feared she still left stains wherever she touched. Gaby took her own mug and returned to the living-room. She sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, folded her legs under her thighs and continued her doings. She had spread newspapers on the table and started to take apart the gearbox of her Wartburg to clean the parts. She had been sure Illya would ask her not to do it on the basis of his tidy apartment. But he had merely watched what she was doing, quite interested, looking over his book. Then Solo had come, the coffee had been made and now Gaby left the the two of them in the kitchen.

“Why are you here?” Illya asked and crossed his arms.

Napoleon looked at him, a little displeased. “I am visiting a sick… colleague. No, acquaintance,” he decided. “That is what people do. That is polite,” he pointed out and glanced at Gaby in the other room. “And also I’m quite interested to see how you are getting along with a fiancée you don’t know.”

Illya huffed but wasn't that surprised. That was roughly the reason he expected Cowboy to be there.

“So how is it going?” Napoleon inquired when Peril didn’t answer.

“Fine,” Illya said stiffly. He didn't really share his personal life with anybody.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a fiancée?” Napoleon asked and sipped his coffee. His face crimped and he pushed the cup farther away from him. “Is it because she makes such vile coffee that you are not sure you are going to keep her?”

Illya looked nonplussed and sipped from his cup. He swallowed slowly, glanced at the coffee and then at Gaby through the door. “Her talents are in different things.”

“Have you got a taste of those?” Napoleon grinned and Peril glared him under his brows. Napoleon chuckled quietly. “But seriously,” he then said, clearing his throat and leaning closer to Illya over the table. “You had to had some reason not to talk about her,” he reasoned and looked at Gaby. Illya turned to look at her too. She detached a piece from the gearbox and blew on it before putting it back. “Have you found out what it is?”

“I did not tell because it is not anybody’s business,” Illya muttered while still looking at her.

Napoleon hummed. “Maybe,” he agreed. “Or maybe she is insane,” he said quietly.

Illya glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “She is not.”

“Maybe she isn’t that bright and you are embarrassed to introduce her to anybody,” Napoleon suggested and Illya huffed slightly. “Maybe she has a really irritating laugh. Have you heard her laughing?”

“There is nothing wrong with her,” Illya said firmly and scowled at Cowboy before turning to look at Gaby again. She detached pieces from the gearbox carefully but in a way that showed she knew what she was doing. Her fingers were black from the dirty pieces. Her mug on the edge of the coffee table had some black fingerprints on it. Illya wondered if there had been black fingerprints on him. Black fingerprints on his neck where she had taken hold when she had risen on her toes to kiss him. Maybe she had grabbed his wrist or touched his face, maybe there had been smudges on his clothes. Maybe there had been smudges under his clothes. For some reason the idea of her fingerprints on his skin intrigued him immensely. He wasn’t sure why. Illya liked being clean so there was no reason to suddenly want black smudges all over him. And yet he still wanted those, all over him.

Napoleon made a noise indicating that he wasn’t so sure, mainly because he knew that if not insane, she was at least a liar. But then he had played his part too in that story so maybe it wasn’t that bad. He was only asking to see what Peril thought about her. And he couldn’t hide if he tried: he was smitten.

Illya turned to Cowboy. “Maybe I did not tell about her so that you would not try to hit on her,” he said and Napoleon could hear the disapproval in his voice. “You do not really care are people spoken for.” He leaned against the back of his chair and looked down his nose at the American, didn’t even try to hide that he judging him.

“Were you afraid that I would succeed?” Napoleon smirked and sipped his coffee when couldn't remember how bitter it was and pushed it away again when he remembered. “Does it really matter if you don’t remember her anyway? She is basically available.”

“You keep your hands off her,” Illya hissed. “She is my woman.”

Gaby cleared her throat at the door. Illya looked tensed up, there was slight pink hue on his cheeks. Napoleon grinned at him. “I am my own woman,” Gaby said. “If somebody wasn’t sure.”

Illya straightened his back and glanced at Gaby so quickly he couldn't really even say if she look annoyed or angry. The tone of voice was mostly informative and didn’t give much emotion away. Illya contemplated whether he should apologize when she started talking again.

“I’m going to make more coffee,” Gaby said. “Do you want some?”

“No, thank you,” Illya said and Napoleon shook his head.

Gaby frowned. “Was there something wrong with the coffee?” she asked.

“I haven’t ever drank coffee that bitter,” Napoleon said bluntly. “I don’t even know how you managed that.”

Gaby huffed and took the coffee grounds. “You are exaggerating,” she accused and looked Illya. “Right?”

Illya shrugged a little and mumbled but didn’t really say anything.

“You haven’t complained before,” Gaby claimed.

Illya sighed and turned to look at her. “I think I may have lied,” he suspected.

Gaby’s face tensed up and she started to ladle the grounds in the coffee maker with a spoon.

Illya gestured toward the machine. “How much grounds do you put there?” he asked.

“Until it feels good,” Gaby said and her shoulders made a little twitch. “It’ll be fine.”

“You do not measure it?” Illya asked and got up slowly and stiffly, suppressing a grunt. He went to Gaby and took the spoon from her. “You can not put more until it  _ feels good _ ,” he said and sounded like Gaby’s vague measuring system was the stupidest system he had ever heard of. He pushed Gaby gently aside from the counter and the coffee maker. “No wonder it tastes like poison.”

Gaby frowned at him but stepped aside. Solo grinned at her and her face stayed crimped. It was his fault anyway that they were in the situation where two basically strange men were judging her coffee making abilities in her own kitchen.

“We were just wondering why Peril didn’t tell anybody he had a fiancée,” Napoleon said.

Illya sighed, frustrated, and leaned his palms onto the counter, scowled at him from behind Gaby's back. There was no reason for him to remind her of that. Illya didn’t know if it was a problem for her.

“It’s because Illya feels that his personal life is his business, not anybody else’s,” Gaby said lightly and ignored Solo, who was trying to make some kind of conflict happen. Gaby suspected that it was just his childish need to tease somebody. And she didn’t really like that he was clearly trying to get Illya embarrassed. “And I think he was sure you would make a fool of yourself by trying to make a move towards me,” she sighed complacently when Solo’s face sank.

Illya turned back to the coffee maker and managed to hide his grin.

Gaby lift her other brow to Solo as a sign of victory before turning on her heels. She set her mug on the counter next to Illya. “I take my coffee with milk.” she said and Illya nodded slightly. Gaby glanced at Solo and then, mostly to show him that she was pulling off his ridiculous charade, she rose on her toes, slipped her hand behind Illya’s neck and kissed him so close onto the corner of his lips that it could’ve been easier to kiss him on the lips. She left black fingerprints on his neck and made him watch after her when she left the room.

“I don’t want her anymore,” Napoleon muttered. “You can keep her.”

“Also I can hear what you are saying,” Gaby said loudly from the living-room.

The corners of Illya’s mouth twitched when he turned the coffee maker on.


	7. Defector

Illya’s steps were stiff but he wasn’t going to say that he was hurting and wanted to turn back. He had a crutch he had used the first few days in the hospital, but refused to use anymore. The leg was attached to him, he could manage without a crutch. The doctor had said that it would be good to keep the leg mobile. Illya didn’t really care what the doctor was saying, but Gaby insisted. And Illya couldn't say no to her. He didn’t have any reason to decline, other than he didn’t want to and even he knew that was a pointless excuse. Mostly he merely didn't wanted to look weak in Gaby’s eyes. He didn't want to show that he had difficulties and that the hip ached **.**

The problem of course was that Gaby still saw it. Illya could see how she observed him with her sharp eyes and knew exactly how hard it was for him. Still she didn't suggest that they should go back. She let him walk and act like it didn’t hurt as much as it did. She expected him to say it himself if he wasn’t up to it or just manage the short walk they were taking anyway.

It infuriated Illya. The way she deliberately let him suffer when she could’ve been nice and suggest going back and ask would he like a cup of tea. But she let him be stubborn and in pain if he chose it. And even when Illya hated it he liked it too. It was nice that she didn’t treat him like a sick person but rather expected him to do everything he had done previously. Or at least say himself if he couldn’t.

“My uncle is coming to visit at the end of the week,” Gaby said. “He and the people he works for have some party they are attending in Savoy. They have invited us.”

Illya glanced at her. “Does he like me?” he asked. He suspected that if not it was because he was Russian.

“You haven’t met,” Gaby said and didn’t mention that probably not. “He lives in Rome. We don’t meet that often.”

“Do you have more family”? Illya asked.

“Only him,” Gaby said as she walked. “I stayed with him a few months after I defected from Berlin. Before I decided where I wanted to live. Rome was nice, the people… not that much.”

Illya stopped when his hip ached and frowned. He glanced at Gaby under his brows. “You are a defector,” he said slowly.

Gaby turned to him and stood still. “Yes,” she said and lifted her chin, her jaw tightened and mouth pressed into a tight line. “Is that a problem”? she asked sharply and realised that it might be. Maybe even big enough to make him wonder how he had accepted it and wanted to marry her.

“No,” Illya decided after a while. First it had felt like a problem, but then it’s not like the life behind the Iron curtain had been that good for him either. He was surprised that it didn’t bother him more. “Was it earlier?”

“No,” Gaby said quickly and they both stared each other on the street, estimating was the other one lying. Gaby wondered was the subject really not a problem and Illya wasn’t sure why Gaby was with him when she was from East Berlin. A romance between a Russian and an East German seemed strange. And yet there they were; together in a street in London, looking at each other a little suspiciously--Gaby, her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket, lips still pressed firmly together; Illya, leaning his weight on his right leg, a hundred questions in his mind he wanted to ask.

“When did you defect?” Illya asked and tried to sound as neutral as he could. He wanted her to know that he really was okay with it.

“Just before they built the wall,” Gaby said and started to walk again. Illya followed her and was happy when she kept her pace calm. “I commuted to West Berlin daily for years because of my school. But I always went back,” she told. “My foster father, he was sick. Well, dying,” she corrected and hummed, displeased. “I didn’t want to leave him. And in the summer of ‘61 they were still saying that no wall was going to be built.” Gaby turned quickly to face Illya. “What do you remember from that? Was there a wall?”

“Only barbed wire,” Illya said.

“It’s concrete now,” Gaby said.

Illya nodded. He knew. It was among those things he had checked while he had still been in the hospital.

“I didn’t want to leave him alone,” Gaby continued. “But he made the decision for me. He gave me what little he had in the bank one morning when I was leaving for classes. Said that I should never come back. I left with my training clothes and went to do my classes and then I never went back home.”

Illya could hear from her voice that the subject was sensitive and that she was trying to hide it.

“They closed the borders two days later for good,” Gaby said. She huffed air from her lungs and took some new in and gathered herself. She had never told anybody. She wasn’t even sure why she had told now, she should've just made something up. “He died a month later,” she muttered. “I wasn’t there.”

Illya felt stiff. He didn’t remember ever comforting anybody. “He wanted you to leave,” Illya said when it felt like a safe bet. “You did. He was probably happy.”

Gaby hummed and lifted her chin again, she didn't want to get emotional. “He wasn’t a very decent father. Drank until his liver stopped working. He was always in trouble with the law. He hated all my boyfriends,” Gaby muttered. “But he was the only father who was there for me. Maybe he was drunk and a little tough, but he kept a roof over my head and bread on the table and clothes on my back. And he did all kinds of black market business so he could pay for my school because he didn’t want me to quit.” Her voice started to crack and she took a brief pause to get it steady again. “I would’ve wanted to be there to tell him how much I appreciated that.” Gaby sniffed quietly, tried to be like it was merely the cold air making her nose run.

Illya nodded. His hand moved from his side, moved closer to Gaby. He hesitated and pulled it back but then reached it out again and let it brush her back. 

Gaby stopped so suddenly Illya had to turn around to face her when he passed her by. “Do you want to go back?” Gaby asked quickly, in order to change the subject and gave in to Illya’s condition. She waved her hand back to the direction they had come from. “It’s shorter if we turn back now instead of walking a loop.”

“Let’s carry on,” Illya decided. The hip ached and he didn’t want to. But Gaby’s father had been a drunk and still managed to pay for her school. Illya could take a little walk with an aching leg. He started walking and Gaby caught up. “Were there not suitable schools in East Berlin?” Illya asked when he wondered why she had commuted to the west every day. He cleared his throat when patriotism lifted his head. “I am sure soviet education would’ve been sufficient for you. It was for me.”

“You studied at Cambridge,” Gaby pointed out and her lips twitched.

“Before that,” Illya muttered slightly embarrassed that she knew. Of course she knew.

Gaby hummed like she didn’t believe him just to tease him little. “I studied at the Berlin Ballet School,” she said and tilted her head to see Illya’s expression. She knew he liked ballet. “I was first soloist.”

Illya stopped to press his hand on his hip and stretched it out. He had been looking at her for days, but now he looked again, examined her more thoroughly. She had a short dress and tights covering her slender thighs. When she took a step to the side Illya could see her muscles tightening under the elasticized material. Now he could see the strength she had. He started moving again.

“You are a ballerina,” he muttered and swallowed. A ballerina. He was engaged to a ballerina. He’d had sex with a ballerina. Several times. Her dancer's thighs had pressed against his hip that was now aching. Illya wondered had she enough strength in her to make his hip ache even when he wasn’t bruised. He really hoped she had. His brows knitted deeply when he tried to dig out some memories of that. He’d had a ballerina in his bed and he couldn’t remember that.

“I... “ he sighed. “I enjoy ballet,” he said.

“I know,” Gaby assured him.

Illya glanced at her and noticed her tiny grin. It troubled him that he didn’t know how clear he had made that.

“I only dance for fun now,” Gaby said. “In a little studio in Islington. Sometimes if I’m there alone you come to watch. You say I’m good.”

Illya liked that he got to see her dance when there was no one else around. A light laugh came out of her and he turned to look. “What?”

Gaby shook her head, still smiling. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me anyway,” Illya asked.

“I remember the last time you came to watch,” Gaby said and tried to hide her smile. Illya had clumsily tried to comfort her earlier and she appreciated the gesture. She wanted to pay him back with a made-up memory he would like. “I had burns on my lower back for a week. They were glowing under my clothes and reminded me of it.”

“How did you got burns on your back?” Illya wondered.

“From the friction,” Gaby said and glanced at him, “against the floor.”

Illya’s brows furrowed. “But how did…” his sentence was left unfinished when Illya understood what she was saying. The thought made his ears and neck burn red.

“I kept my ballet shoes on,” Gaby almost whispered.

Illya barely managed to dodge a lamppost.


	8. Keeper

Gaby bent her arm behind her back and tried to get a grip on the zipper. She couldn't and wondered how she had got the thing on her at all. She huffed with frustration and let her arms flop against her sides. She went to the living-room and stopped in front of Illya who was reading on the couch. “Could you?” she asked and gestured at her zipper. Normally she didn’t have this easy solution. 

Illya set his book aside and moved to sit on the edge of the couch. He started opening the zipper slowly, uncovering more and more of her bare skin. First the hooks of her bra were showing, his eyes traced her spine until it disappeared under the waistband of her underwear. Illya noticed he was staring and he let go of the zipper.

“Thank you,” Gaby said and returned to the bedroom. She was going to push the door shut but pulled her hand away. She wouldn't do that. She had changed her clothes in front of him for months, she wouldn't change that now. Gaby wiggled her way out of her dress and kicked it onto the chair in the corner. It dangled on the edge of the seat for a moment, but dropped onto the floor. Gaby looked at it, displeased.

Illya glanced at the bedroom door frame over his book when he saw Gaby moving in there. She had only underwear on and Illya knew he was staring again. He wondered was it rude to stare at your own fiancée. He had known her for a week and there she stood, in her underwear, looking like it was what she normally did, which probably was true. Illya wondered had he stared at her a week ago or was seeing her like this so normal, that he didn’t even notice it. She was slender and there were not many curves on her, but then Illya liked that. He had expected that, she was a dancer.

He waited to see if she would pick the dress up from the floor. Illya was sure she hadn't hit the chair with it and was now staring at it like she expected it to crawl onto the chair by itself. She turned on her heels like Illya had guessed and left the dress on the floor. Gaby got herself clean pajamas from the wardrobe, threw them on the bed. She started undoing her bra, made a little twirl while pacing around and Illya swallowed.

When she disappeared from the doorframe Illya went back to his book. He stared at the pages and couldn't say what he had already read. He frowned when he had to glance at the cover to check what he even was reading.

She only buttoned the last buttons on her pajama shirt when she walked to the bathroom. That was what Illya thought about when he changed into pajama pants and undershirt. He bent to grab her dress from the floor and dropped it on the chair. It was still warm after her. That was what he thought about when he leaned against the sink while brushing his teeth. Illya wondered had he been thinking about her this much before the accident. It was what he now thought about all the time. The doctor had suggested that he could try some easy methods to revive his memories. The suggestions sounded stupid to Illya but still he had tried. Nothing had happened since but then he hadn’t used the most important part of the life that he had forgotten, the one his brains were now full of: Gaby.

He switched off the bathroom and living-room lights, climbed on the bed and leaned against the headboard. Gaby brushed her hair and he wondered what it smelled like. Finally he cleared his throat and looked at Gaby at the mirror of the vanity. “The doctor said some scents and tastes could trigger my memories,” he said.

“Is that so?” Gaby asked and set the brush away.

“He suggested that I should try to smell familiar things,” Illya said and thought to himself how nonsensical that sounded. “I know it sounds stupid.”

Gaby kept her face serious even when she was agreeing. “What kind of things?” she asked and switched off the lamp on the vanity, and the dim light on Illya’s nightstand was only one illuminating the room with its yellow glow.

Illya sighed and felt stupid. “Things. Important things.”

“Like?” Gaby coaxed.

“You,” Illya blurted. “He said that your smell could trigger some memories.”

Gaby knew her smell wouldn’t trigger anything. But Illya looked annoyed and maybe even embarrassed for saying it so she went to the bed. Gaby sat down on the edge of of it, her thigh slid against his thigh. She tucked her hair behind her ear and swiped it over her other shoulder. She arched her neck to the side and exposed it to Illya as if he would want to sink his teeth into it and suck her dry, and she would let him.

Illya felt stupid, but leaned forward a little anyway. She had made the effort so it was only fair that he would do his part. Gaby was already close and it only needed a little tilt forward and down in order to get his face near the column of her throat. He inhaled and waited to see if her scent made any difference. She smelled of something sweet, probably her perfume still lingering on her skin. Clean cotton from her pajamas. The rest of it was only her. It was a nice smell. 

He decided he had gone too far not to do things properly. So he closed his eyes and inhaled again, deeply, so close that his nose touched her neck. His hand took hold of her thigh when he leaned closer without Illya even noticing. Gaby glanced at it quickly but didn’t react. He moved his face and traced her neck up, inhaled her scent and let it fill his lungs.

Gaby held her breath when his nose brushed her neck. It felt intimate and it was hard to act like it wasn't a big deal when she had to be like this was something they had done before. Her heart was pounding faster when she could hear him taking her scent into his lungs. Gaby leaned her neck closer to him and closed her eyes. Illya’s fingers squeezed her thigh and Gaby had to bite her lip so that she didn’t sigh. Illya’s nose rose higher on her neck, she turned her face and he practically let his face face sink into her hair, behind her ear.

No memories reappeared. But she smelled good and brought her neck closer to his reach. He wanted to press his face against it, feel it on his cheek and on his lips. He wanted to kiss her skin and hear her soft sighs. Gaby remembered him so why would she mind? And the doctor had said tastes as well as scents. He hadn’t specifically urged him to taste his fiancée but Illya couldn’t really see any difference.

He kissed her carefully, slowly touched her skin near the collar of her pajama shirt. The cotton brushed his cheek. Gaby made precisely that kind of soft sigh Illya had wished. His lips raised goosebumps all over her. She let him continue, claimed to herself that it was only kind of her and it had nothing to do with the fact that it felt too good to stop. The muscles in her neck moved against his lips when her head turned slightly. He could feel her pulse. Rapid throb and hot blood that rushed in her veins like the blood rushed in his veins, made it difficult to think of much more than her.

Illya was sure that if Gaby’s taste had any memory restoring abilities he was tasting from the wrong place. Her skin didn’t taste that much of anything. It was soft and warm and felt wonderful, but there wasn’t any particular taste to it. He should kiss her lips, taste her mouth, that could maybe work.

And when he started to think of all the other places he could taste her Illya couldn’t stop himself from thinking how many times she had been lying on this bed, back arching from pleasure, his name on her lips, when he had been tasting her from between her legs. Maybe her fingers grabbed his hair when she came, maybe the sheets. He wondered did she enjoy his fingers inside of her or just his tongue. He assumed they had done it, maybe even quite frequently. He liked doing it and there was nothing that indicated that Gaby didn’t. Illya wondered would she let him do it now if he asked. The idea excited him but at the same time he had to admit that he wouldn’t suggest it. He would do it if Gaby asked for it, gladly, but he wouldn’t ask for himself. He noticed his fingers were squeezing her thigh and he slowly eased his grip and let his lips pull away from her neck. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable in the weird situation they were in.

Gaby opened her eyes and hummed slightly. “Was it helpful?” she muttered and tried to sound like it was all normal and not exciting at all; her heart was pounding so hard she was sure Illya could hear it. For the first time she realized that maybe pretending to be somebody’s fiancée could mean more than just knowing about them. Maybe it wouldn’t be enough that they hold hands. How would she wiggle her way out if Illya made a move? She could say it was weird when he didn’t remember her, but then if Illya was ready to look past that then she should be too.

Gaby turned her head a little so she could see him. It would probably be easier to have sex with him if he would suggest it than try to came up some excuse why not. 

“No,” Illya had to admit. Gaby didn't feel any more familiar. More interesting and alluring, but not familiar.

Gaby nodded and got up. She went around the bed and slipped under the duvet on her own side. “You will. I’m sure,” she said. It would probably be wise to start to think of a plan for January when she could stop pretending. Something nice, she didn’t want to make ending the relationship too hurtful.

Illya switched the light off and they settled in their spots.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. Or maybe he only needed to make new memories.

Gaby wondered what would happen if he would never got his memories back. Maybe she could just keep him. That would be easier than making a plan for breaking up.


	9. Spy

Gaby pushed her grey coveralls down the shirt and jeans under it and stepped out of it. A light bulb flickered in the corner. She hung the coveralls in her locker and went to wash her hands. The sink was dirty from grease and the black slag Gaby had to brush away under her fingernails every day. She glanced at her face in the little dusty mirror above the sink; people tended to look at you a little funny when you had engine grime on your forehead. She scrubbed her hands with soap but her fingertips were perpetually black. She would need to scrub those with paint thinner before Sunday. She couldn’t go in Savoy with black fingertips. Victoria looked down her nose at her as it was. But right now she couldn't do anything with the stains. She wondered did Illya mind. Gaby pulled her coat on and left the small changing room.

“Teller,” one of the mechanics called her and snapped his fingers to get her attention. Then he pointed with the same hand towards the garage. “Somebody’s here to see you.”

Gaby went back out into the garage bay. She wasn't expecting anybody. If it was some unhappy client she was definitely going to act like she didn’t speak English. Her steps paused for a moment when she saw Illya, in his turtleneck and cap, looking over the light blue Ford Anglia she was working on.

“What’re you doing here?” Gaby asked when she started to move again and walked to him.

Illya turned to look at her. “Is this yours?” he asked and pointed at the Anglia. “You said you had a project here.”

“Wartburg,” Gaby said and pointed the dark car in the corned. “Back there.”

Illya went to the car, walked around it, slowly so that Gaby could hardly notice how his leg still made him limp slightly. He examined the car that had no tires, side mirrors nor windshield. The sides were covered with scratches and dents like somebody had driven it between two buildings.

Illya glanced at Gaby under his brows. “Does it go fast?” he asked sarcastically.

Gaby huffed and tried to not smile. “It’s not finished, as you can see,” she pointed out and set her hands on her hips. “But when it’s ready, yes,” she promised. She almost opened her mouth to say she would take him on a spin to prove it. But it would be well into next year so there was no point of promising that.

Illya nodded and was serious in a way that was not serious at all.

“Why are you here?” Gaby asked again.

“Friday,” Illya said. “We eat dinner out after work on Fridays. You said so.”

Gaby sighed when she realized that she had lost track of her own lies. “Yes, but I didn’t expect us to do it now when you don’t remember.”

“I need to eat even when I don’t remember,” Illya pointed out. He liked how Gaby tried to hold her smile but couldn't quite manage that. He liked when he made her smile. “Do you want to go?”

“Sure, we can go,” Gaby said and nodded convincingly. She quickly turned away from him and bit her lower lip. It felt like a date and she felt nervous. They walked away from between the cars and Gaby turned back to look at him. “How did you know where I work?”

Illya shrugged. “You told me.”

“No.” She was sure she hadn’t told him. “Do you remember?” Gaby asked carefully because she knew Illya couldn’t remember that.

“Maybe I read it somewhere,” Illya suggested.

Gaby frowned. Then her eyes opened wide and she grabbed his sleeve to stop him. “Have you gone through my things?” she demanded.

“No,” Illya claimed. “Nothing that was hiding,” he muttered vaguely.

Gaby crossed her arms over her chest, she stared at him accusingly on the garage's concrete floor.

Illya sighed. “You had some papers lying around. On a table,” Illya said. “Or in a drawer,” he confessed. “Maybe I read those. Paychecks, from where I got the address. Some papers from your doctor visits,” Illya said and looked everywhere except Gaby’s eyes that were staring at him.

Gaby pursed her lips. “And did you read the papers from the doctor too?” she asked tightly.

“Glanced,” Illya exhaled. “Not all. Not the last one.”

“The two last pages were from the same doctor,” Gaby made a note. “From the same visit.”

“And I only read the first,” Illya stressed. “After that I figured it was something you would prefer to keep all to yourself.” He cleared his throat and straightened his back. He had one way out of the situation without it turning into a fight; he needed to be so that Gaby wouldn't get embarrassed that he had read her papers. “It is nice to know that everything is in order,” he said in a very no-nonsense way, quickly glanced at her eyes before looking at the cars around them again, “down there.”

Gaby squinted at him, annoyed even when his over the top casualness amused her. And she really couldn't judge Illya for reading few papers, not after she had gone through all of his apartment, found every secret it could tell her. Although Illya’s place probably had far fewer secrets than her apartment. She hadn't even found anything pornographic. First she had wondered was it because he wasn't interested in anything like that, which would explain why he was uneasy when she had said that they had sex. But then she had found a handbill from Swan Lake in his nightstand drawer. That seemed an odd place to put it when he had a few others and those were in a pile on his desk. She had put the program back like it was and sort of looked forward to the moment when he would find out that he, as far as he knew, was engaged to a ballerina. 

Gaby frowned at little when she now wondered how much more Illya had searched her apartment. Had he peeked in all the drawers, opened all the cupboards? Gaby bit her bottom lip again. Had he looked inside the box under the bed? She should move that somewhere else. A box under a bed was suspicious even when you weren't snooping. And it would probably look interesting enough to open. But Illya didn't look like he had opened it when Gaby examined his face closely. He looked like somebody who may have read the papers from her gynecologist, but not like somebody who had found a vibrator under her bed. Gaby was sure he wouldn't be as casual regarding to that.

“I am sorry I read your papers,” Illya said. “I still know very little about you. And they were there. So I read them.”

Gaby hummed. “Ask next time,” she suggested. “What do you want to know? I will tell you.”

“Anything?” Illya made sure.

“Yes,” Gaby promised hesitantly and wondered what he wanted to know. Maybe he had after all looked in the box. That really was her private business.

“Fine,” Illya said and stepped closer. So close that Gaby had to tilt her head far back to look at him. He glanced around to see were they alone. “Is this place legal?” he muttered. “It looks like a chop shop.”

Gaby huffed. “This is very respectable place,” she declared proudly. Illya’s brows rose like he didn’t believe her. “Somewhat respectable place,” Gaby corrected and then sighed: “Well, they pay well.”

“I have seen your paychecks,” Illya pointed out, amused.

“Well, it’s... I get by,” Gaby tried to find words that weren't that bad. Illya’s mouth twitched. Gaby snorted and yanked him back to moving. “Let’s go then, spy. I’m hungry.”

He grunted a little and slowed his pace down. “Can we go slower? I am still injured.”

Gaby chuckled, tried to cover it as a cough and frowned to look more serious. “Really?”

“Yes,” Illya said nonplussed **.**

“It’s been over a week and this is the first time you mentioned it. You have been trying to pretend like your leg is perfectly fine, not hindering you in any way, not hurting at all. And now suddenly you are injured,” Gaby remarked. She looked at him a little condescendingly just to tease him. “Are you going soft on me?”

Illya tried to look as annoyed as he could, he wanted to _be_ annoyed, but it was hard when Gaby’s eyes were full of laughter. He pushed her gently back to moving and they stepped outside. Gaby took a hold on his arm.

“Your pace,” she promised and let Illya set the pace now when he had admitted that he wasn't really fit yet. It was kind of nice to hold his arm, it warmed the cold Friday night.


	10. Dealer

Gaby knocked on the door until Napoleon came to open it and pushed in past him. She stopped in the living-room and looked around; luxurious and elegant, and little bit over the top. “It’s just like I imagined,” she remarked over her shoulder.

“This is a lovely surprise,” Napoleon sighed and looked at her. “I mean it; lovely, but still a surprise. What are you doing in here?”

“I can’t co -”

“No,” Napoleon interrupted and lifted his palm up like he was conducting Gaby’s speech. “New question: how did you know where I live?”

Gaby sighed. “I called Illya’s office. You sometimes work together so I figured they would know your address.”

“They just gave you my address like that?” Napoleon asked displeased.

“Of course not,” Gaby said. “But the women in the reception gave it to me after I told that you had seduced me and I was now pregnant and needed to meet you because you were going to be a father.” Gaby shrugged. “And I may have fake cried.”

Napoleon looked at her, his forehead creased, a disbelieving expression on his face. “Oh, you are good,” he finally muttered, impressed. “Although I must immediately ask Marge never to give my home address to anybody. Not even hysterical women.”

“Are you expecting that to happen again?” Gaby was interested to find out.

“It’s better to play it safe,” Napoleon reasoned. “Now, let’s go back to  _ why _ you are here.”

“I can’t continue pretending to be Illya’s fiancée,” Gaby said. “It’s too hard.”

“Too hard?” Napoleon mocked. “You don’t believe that even yourself.” He went to his drink cabinet and poured himself a cognac, waggled the bottle little towards Gaby and she waved her hand approvingly.

“My uncle and his employers are coming to London tomorrow. I am meeting them,” Gaby explained. “Both of us are. In Savoy.”

“Sounds fancy,” Napoleon noted and handed the drink to Gaby who gulped it down in one go. He hesitated and pointed at the glass carefully. “Do you want another?” he asked, a little unsure. He didn’t usually entertain people like Gaby.

Gaby shoved her glass back to Solo’s hand  and slumped down on the couch. “You don’t understand. Suddenly I have a fiancé who I haven’t told anybody about. I have been with him over a year. Russian fiancé,” Gaby huffed, “It was different when this was affecting his life but now it’s affecting my life too. He lives with me.”

Napoleon handed a new drink to Gaby over her shoulder and walked around the couch. “You told that to him yourself,” he pointed out and sat on the armchair opposite her.

“Because I didn’t think things through,” Gaby moaned frustrated. “It’s not like I have pretended to be anybody’s fiancée before. It was natural to assume we would live together, at least unofficially after that time. To me anyway. I didn’t really think that he would actually leave the hospital and then live with me. And now he does. And I have to introduce him to my uncle and make up some reason why I hadn’t told him about Illya before. He will think that’s suspicious.” Gaby sighed and sipped her drink. She swirled the amber liquid in her mouth before swallowing. “This is nice,” she complimented.

“And expensive,” Napoleon pointed out. “Try not to gulp it like a cheap vodka. You need to savor it.”

Gaby leaned forward on the couch. “I can’t savor anything when I’m so anxious. Tomorrow is going to be a catastrophe. And it’s your fault.”

“You hit him with your car,” Napoleon reminded.

“And you are blackmailing me,” Gaby pointed out.

“Well…” Napoleon sighed, “maybe we are both guilty.”

“Except you don’t have to be the one explaining tomorrow why she has a fiancé she hasn't told anybody about. Rudi is going to assume I’m ashamed of Illya,” Gaby muttered, displeased. “And…” she sighed. “It’s not that alone. I don’t think we should lie about something so big as a fiancée.”

Truth was that Gaby didn’t want to hurt Illya’s feelings. He was nice, little stiff at first but he was opening up and Gaby didn’t mind his company. He was intelligent and almost fun in a sort of dry way. They’d had a nice evening dining out and now Gaby felt that lying about being his fiancée was too big a thing.

“And Illya won’t get along with these people,” Gaby assured him. “I hardly do. My uncle has lived in a different country most of my life. We only spent time together properly few years ago when I stayed with him few months after I defected. And his employers, they are… it’s complicated. She doesn’t like me and he likes me a little too much and I have influenced both of those feelings with my own behaviour.”

Napoleon hummed and tilted his head. “Let me guess. You had an affair with the husband and the wife found out?”

Gaby’s mouth pressed into a tight line and her teeth gritted together. She refused to say anything.

“Does Peril know you are defector?” Napoleon asked. Gaby nodded and he made a slightly surprised noise. “I would’ve assumed he’d have a problem with that. Glad to hear he hasn’t. It would be quite inconvenient for your relationship.”

“There is no relationship,” Gaby pointed out. “I’m only pretending because you are blackmailing me for reasons I am not sure. Probably only because you are bored and get some enjoyment out of this. But that doesn’t mean he has to get hurt because of this. There is already so much he has gone through,” Gaby muttered. “His family and childhood and... I don’t want to make his life more complicated.”

Napoleon shook his head slightly. “That is such a weird concept; Peril sharing his affairs with anybody. I can’t even understand how that would even happen. Were you in a smoky tavern sharing life stories?” he grinned.

“Well,” Gaby breathed out and swirled her drink in the glass. “He didn’t really tell me anything.”

“Then how would you know about his parents and childhood?” Napoleon asked.

Gaby sighed and looked at him partly bored, partly defiantly to see if Solo would judge her. “He gave me his keys so I could bring him a book he was reading to the hospital. I went through his apartment. Everything. Every nook and cranny. Found out every secret.”

Napoleon looked her again, very impressed and slightly terrified. “You are really good,” he praised. “You know, if you need some other job instead of fixing cars I could use you.”

“I though you are a antique dealer,” Gaby said.

“I am,” Napoleon said. “But sometimes in that sort of business, you need to use methods that aren’t always that…“ he tilted his head from one side to another and pursed his lips, “conventional.”

“You mean legal?” Gaby asked.

“Conventional, legal, it’s really the same,” Napoleon claimed.

“What would you use me?” Gaby wondered.

“Anything really. You seem qualified,” he nodded. “Let’s talk in January when this business is over.”

Gaby hummed and sipped her drink. Her life was slipping from her fingers and from her control more and more each day. Now she was a liar, soon, if wasn’t careful, she would be a criminal.


	11. Niece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case I haven't been clear enough: this is a advent calendar. It's in the tags, so I assumed it was clear and also it has sort of fitting number of chapters and also new chapter everyday. But then I checked and apparently I didn't say that it was calendar in the first chapter. So I'm sorry if you have been confused. There will be new chapter every day until the 25th and the last one at 31st.

Illya hadn’t known what to expect from Gaby. She wore jeans and jumpers, little dresses with thick tights so that she didn’t get cold in the brisk December winds. Her hair was in a ponytail, she didn’t use that much make-up. Her fingertips were mostly at least a little black from the working at the garage. And Illya liked all that, he liked that she didn’t try too hard. But he wasn’t sure what to expect from Savoy.

She had a red dress; narrow like she was, thin belt around her waist, slit in the back. Her hair was teased but simple, soft curls hung over her shoulder. Her lipstick wasn’t as pale and modern as some women wore, but more soft pink so it didn’t clash with her dress. Her fingertips were squeaky clean. And Illya couldn’t stop staring at her.

He glanced around when they got in Savoy and checked to see if other people were staring at her too. Or maybe they would stare at both of them and wonder how he had gotten himself a woman like her. Illya sure was wondering about that.

Under her lovely and still simple exterior her eyes were gazing over everything rapidly. She was clenching her fingers, her movements and facial expression were tight unlike usual.

“You are nervous,” Illya said.

“No,” Gaby claimed even though she knew Illya was right. They left their coats in the coat room and she noticed her uncle.

Not very tall, looking somewhat frumpy in his suit, crumbs on his lapel like he had been eating moments before. He walked towards them, lifted his hand to embrace her. “Gaby, my favorite niece, you look lovely. I hardly recognized you,” Rudi greeted when he pulled her close, and kissed her cheeks.

Gaby smiled, as naturally as she could. She was always a little uneasy with him and now the situation was even more awkward.

“And this is the young man who has finally tamed this  _ wirbelwind _ ?” Rudi said and turned to Illya. “Quite a miracle worker.”

Illya felt a little proud. He didn’t know how wild Gaby had been when they had met, but he felt still proud that somebody thought he had managed to tame her.

“Let’s go in,” Rudi urged and guided them inside the ballroom full of people. Waiters were carrying trays of golden champagne that glistened in the lights of the chandeliers. The air was warm and heavy with perfume and cigarette smoke. She kept hold of Illya’s arm.

Gaby noticed Victoria right away; it was hard to not notice her. She looked elegant, tall and majestic in her black and white outfit and intricate hairdo; like a ocean liner as she always did. She was Titanic that had crashed against the iceberg but instead of sinking she wore it like diamonds and shone brighter than the crystal glass of champagne in her hand. Gaby exchanged a stiff cheek kiss with her, a few polite comments, and introduced Illya.

Illya could see that the women didn’t like each other. When Victoria left them shortly after he noticed Gaby glancing at her fingers, like she was checking had she remembered to scrub all the black away.

He still felt a little uneasy with Gaby; he wasn’t always sure what to say to her. But she was his fiancée and Illya didn’t like to see her doubting herself or feeling like she wasn’t good enough. And seeing Gaby feeling like that was a surprise. She was very confident with him, teased and kept her own mind. She was so independent that Illya wasn't sure what she even needed a fiancé for. She had her job and her dancing. She had a toolbox in a kitchen cupboard, a switchblade in her handbag and a vibrator in in a box under the bed; she would manage perfectly fine without him. And still Gaby chose to be with him.

Tonight his job as her fiancé had been to tell her she looked beautiful, and he hadn't said that. Sometimes Illya forgot that Gaby couldn't actually read his mind, she only knew things from before. And sometimes if he only thought of something she couldn't know that.

They walked behind Rudi towards the buffet and Illya leaned closer. “You look beautiful,” he said.

The corners of her mouth curled slightly. “Thank you,” she said, sounding pleased but trying to act like she didn’t care what anybody thought. “Jeans and jumpers aren't a problem,” Gaby continued and nodded down. “But this… I feel like a child playing dress up.” She felt silly for saying it out loud. But to counterbalance all the lies she had to tell Illya Gady had started to confess to him all the things she thought but didn’t really want to anybody to know. Now he would know

Illya tilted his head when they stopped and looked at her, estimating, took a hold of her arm and turned her around. Gaby rolled her eyes but was still amused, hiding her grin. “This is good. Yes. I like it,” he said seriously, and hummed as an emphasis.

Gaby was going to say that Illya looked very nice too when Rudi turned around and looked at him. “Gaby tells you are an architect,” he said and gestured at him. “Do you do the building too? You are shaped like a powerlifter, not an architect.”

It wasn't really an insult, but Illya could see from Rudi’s judging gaze and hear from the tone of his voice what he thought about him. He had covered it earlier, but now it was clear that he didn’t like Illya. He was sometimes bad at noticing positive remarks; he mixed praise and innocent teasing with mocking and cruelty. But negative remarks he noticed immediately even if they were covered with politeness or buried under jokes.

“I like to jog,” Illya answered stiffly when he knew he had to say something. And it was the truth.

“Did you say you met when he ran his car into something?” Rudi asked from Gaby.

“Yes,” Gaby sighed and smiled as lightly as she could. “A truck. It was dark. But it ended up being a good thing,” she said and looked up to Illya. He glanced back, stiffly and seemingly bothered about the tone Rudi used.

“And when did this  _ happy accident _ occur?” Rudi kept asking and took food from the table.

“A year ago,” Gaby said.

Rudi frowned and turned around to look at them better. “A year ago? And you only now tell me about this.”

“I wanted to make sure it was serious,” Gaby explained.

Rudi hummed, examined Gaby and glanced at Illya. “Were you perhaps ashamed?”

“Why would she be ashamed?” Illya asked tightly. He knew why Rudi would think that, but the judging still hurt. It bothered Illya that Gaby hadn’t told her uncle about him or their engagement before. They hadn’t been engaged that long yet but they had been together over a year. Illya hadn't told anybody either, but then he didn't have a family to tell. He could feel Gaby’s hand settling on his chest like she was keeping him in his place, calming him down. Illya clenched his hand into a fist. He probably needed calming. He was still controlling himself, he had for years now. But then sometimes situations slipped from his fingers and he couldn't control it and he didn’t want that happening. Not now, not here, not under Gaby’s eyes. He wasn't sure did Gaby know about this. Of course she did, she seemed to know everything. It was why her hand was on his chest.

“I know that the aristocracy is not appreciated by most communists, but a good German girl knows never to mix the blood of a racehorse with that of a carthorse,” Rudi said callously.

Illya gritted his teeth, his fingers tapped against his thigh.

“Uncle Rudi, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say,” Gaby pointed out and tried to make the comment appear like a bad joke.

“No need to be that protective. I’m sure our weightlifter can defend himself,” Rudi said and chucked like it really was a joke. He took some caviar on a piece of cracker and ate it, still looking at Illya like he wanted him to say or do something stupid in front of Gaby.

Illya pulled his arm away from Gaby’s hold. “Excuse me,” he muttered between his teeth while stepping away from her. He wanted to leave now when he still hadn’t punched her uncle. He understood why he would like Gaby to have somebody better and still his pride had taken a blow. The anger surfaced when he was so blunt about him not being good enough.

Gaby tried to relax her tense face and hold on to some sort of lightness before the situation could escalate into a fight. “You could sometimes think what you say,” she said in German, and still sounded more annoyed than she wanted to. She sipped her champagne and looked somewhere between the people where Illya had vanished.

Rudi huffed and took more food. “Russian, Gaby. What were you thinking? Didn’t you get enough of those in Berlin?”

“He is not like that,” Gaby sighed.

“You can’t help the blood,” Rudi claimed and gulped champagne after his caviar.

Gaby rolled her eyes. “What blood? There isn’t any magical blood that runs in every Russian and makes them bad,” she said bored.

“When they marched into Berlin after the war -”

“I know what happened,” Gaby snapped and glanced quickly around her, embarrassed when she couldn't control herself. “I lived and grew up there,” she reminded him and tried to control her voice. “You lived in Italy by then. So don’t pretend like you know better what it was like to be in Germany. Illya wasn’t there. He wasn’t one of the soldiers. He was a child himself. He’s an architect, for God's sake. You are acting like I’m engaged to a KGB agent. He is kind and treats me well,” she continued and wondered was it all necessary. She had no reason to defend a fiancé she would break up with soon. But she wasn't sure was she really defending Illya or was it just for her own selfish need to defend her choice to marry whomever she wanted. It annoyed her already how happy it would make Rudi if she didn't marry Illya.

“Would it be better for me to be engaged to a good German man? Like Mother did? Somebody who marries you and then abandons you and your daughter?” Gaby's brows rose judgmentally and she sipped her drink and took a breath of air. It was warm in the room, the air was stuffy and perfumed. Really she wanted to go outside and breathe chilly air into her lungs. “Is this how you talked to Mother or was Father automatically a good choice solely because he was German?”

“Gaby,” Rudi sighed. “It’s not the same. He is not good enough for you.”

Gaby sipped her drink, huffed and pressed her lips together, angry and hurt. She hated herself for acting like a stubborn child, reminding him about old things to defend her own fake relationship. It shouldn’t matter what Rudi thought of him, and yet it did. And it shouldn't matter that Illya had left, and yet it did.


	12. Fighter

Illya glanced at his father's watch on his wrist. It was after midnight. He wanted to leave, but he didn't want to drag Gaby away if she wanted to stay. And for that he would have to go look for her first. And she would be with her uncle, and Illya didn't want to meet him again.

He walked across the foyer. He would go outside to take some fresh air, that would clear his head. He bumped against a man coming from around a corner. The man grunted immediately, displeased, and scowled at Illya.

“Watch where you are going,” the man snapped and gestured with his hand, seemingly annoyed. He spoke with an Italian accent.

“Sorry,” Illya managed barely from between his teeth. He wanted to leave before he wanted to hit him too.

“Horrible country,” the man huffed. “You English people have no manners,” he looked Illya from head to toe. “Or style,” he snorted.

Illya’s jaw tightened again. His fingers were moving and his breathing was quick and shallow. The man huffed at him one more time and went on his way and Illya was left alone. He wanted to take his coat and leave more than before. But he only stepped outside, walked farther from the front door and the doorman, took some air in him and tried to calm himself down. He couldn't leave. He had a fiancée somewhere inside; looking beautiful in her red dress. 

He knew Gaby had worn it when they had seen  _ Firebird _ in the spring. Illya wondered if he had thought that she looked like the firebird. He couldn't remember, but knowing about the memory calmed him enough that he got himself gathered. He would give himself few more minutes and then he would go back inside and find Gaby. And he would let her decide when they would leave.

 

***

 

Gaby left Rudi with Victoria and claimed to go powder her nose. It was only an excuse to get rid of them. She wandered among the people, glanced around, searched for Illya among the crowd. She went to the foyer. The air was cool and fresh, unlike the air in the ballroom which was full of people and talking. She had drunk three glasses of champagne. She wasn't drunk but it softened everything. Everything was a little easier when you were a little drunk. Gaby knew that was a dangerous way to think. Soon she would prefer to be drunk all the time and that would be the path her foster father had taken and Gaby really didn’t want to end up like him. 

“Gaby,” somebody called and she turned around.

Her brow arched high. “Alexander,” she sighed. “Nice to see you.” The man looked tanned and well, very groomed and stylish; like everything he wore and owned was expensive. His dark hair gleamed under the chandeliers, his mustache fitted together with his accent. Gaby’s mind, softened by the champagne, remembered how his mustache had felt against her stomach, how it had felt against her inside thigh, what the satin sheet had felt like against her back.

“You don’t sound very convincing,” Alexander said but smiled still when Gaby gazed over him from here and there. “You look good. Apparently London agrees with you. Rome was agreeing with you also. You should’ve stayed.”

“To warm your bed?” Gaby huffed.

“You would’ve enjoyed that,” Alexander suspected, grinning.

Gaby hummed. Probably she would have. She could have stayed and just be; spend an eternal vacation in the eternal city. Alexander would’ve provided her with some small but lovely apartment. She could've had a balcony overlooking the ocean. She could've worn flowing dresses, drunk champagne at breakfast, swum in the Mediterranean sea, floated in the sparkling blue waves. Alexander could’ve bought her some pretty and quick car. Maybe a Fiat or a Lancia. She would’ve slept late in the mornings, met interesting people, driven along the narrow coastal roads, sunglasses on her nose, flowing scarf on her hair. She would’ve entertained him in the bedroom when he got away from Victoria. Yes, Gaby would have enjoyed that.

For a while, until the eternal vacation became boring. “For a while” was also the time Alexander would want her. Eventually he would meet somebody else, move on. Gaby would be left to find a job to pay for her apartment and the balcony that overlooked the ocean. And that quick Lancia would probably eat more gasoline than she could afford.

“I like it here,” she said simply. “And I have a fiancé, maybe Rudi told you about that,” she informed him proudly. She was happy that Illya was useful for that even if the rest of the meeting had not been that good.

Alexander huffed and shook his head while he sipped his champagne.

“What is that supposed mean?” Gaby asked tighty.

“Your uncle told us, yes,” Alexander assured her. “But who are you kidding? You are not going to marry some Russian,” Alexander said, making a little mocking chuckle. “He is probably stiff and boring. You don't like that. You need life around you. Somebody who you can cause havoc with.”

Gaby looked at him, displeased. “You don’t know what I want,” she said.

“Well, not any boring Russian,” Alexander was sure. “You need somebody who worships you, buries you in affection, declares his love to you from the rooftops,” he explained softly and stepped closer to her.

“Someone like you?” Gaby asked and tilted her head.

“Maybe,” Alexander muttered, looked her down when he stepped almost against her. “This Russian of yours, whoever he is, sounds like somebody who doesn’t give you the attention you need.”

Gaby rolled her eyes. “His name is Illya. And you don’t know anything about him, you haven't even met him,” she reminded. “And who I choose to be with is none of your business. Besides, you are married. Don't you think you should be somewhere worshipping your wife, burying her in affection? Or are you all talk and no deeds?”

Alexander huffed slightly, pursed his mouth. “I would’ve been good to you if you had stayed in Rome,” he muttered.

“You would’ve got bored. I would’ve got bored,” Gaby said reasonably.

“It would’ve been fun before that,” Alexander said and ducked his head a little closer to her. “It already was. I’m sure you remember.”

Gaby wanted to scoff and claim that she didn’t. But of course she did. It had been fun, there was no denying that. Exciting, wild and forbidden. She noticed somebody moving close in the corner of her eye and glanced to her side. Illya stopped to watch them, looking annoyed. Gaby took a step away from Alexander and only then realized how close they had been.

“Illya,” she sighed and gestured from one man to the another. “This is Alexander Vinciguerra.”

“We have met,” Illya said shortly and remembered the man he had bumped into earlier. He hadn’t expected to see him again, let alone standing against his fiancée. The body language between them wasn’t at all awkward and it bothered Illya. “Should we go?”

“She seems to be enjoying her time here,” Alexander said.

Illya gritted his teeth and his other hand clenched into a tight fist. He had calmed himself down and now that was already gone and he was as agitated as before. He glared at the Italian, who still stood too close to Gaby for his liking.

Gaby rolled her eyes. “Can I make my own decisions?” she sighed, bored. Everybody else was willing to make her decisions for her and she was getting tired of it.

“Let’s go,” Illya said, ignoring her even when he had earlier decided that she could say when they would leave. And still he was the one who slipped his palm onto her waist and guided her with him.

Gaby huffed but her legs were still moving. Maybe leaving wasn’t such a bad idea, it’s not like anything had been that good during the party. Alexander stepped between them and the exit; Gaby could feel Illya’s fingers clenching on her waist. She glanced at him quickly and could see his tightened cheeks and stern expression.

Alexander grabbed Illya’s arm and looked at him condescendingly. “She does -”

Illya’s fist hit his face hard, Gaby could hear the muffled crack when he broke Alexander’s nose. Alexander staggered, stumbled to the floor, lifted his hand to touch his bloody nose.

“Illya!” Gaby snapped. She rushed between the men and pushed Illya back when he clearly was going to continue what he already started. She pushed him back again when he wasn’t going to stay still. She panted from the fright and glanced around when people started to come to the foyer. Alexander snapped something in Italian and Gaby noticed her uncle in the crowd. “We need to leave,” she said and scowled at Illya, who stared at Alexander and didn’t move. “Now,” she hissed and shoved him sharply to get him moving.

Gaby couldn’t look over her shoulder to see Rudi and Victoria probably looking after her. She was embarrassed and angry, and even startled, which she hated. She grabbed her coat from the woman in the coat room and stormed out. She turned on her heels to face Illya who pulled his coat on.

“What was that?” she shouted and didn’t care if the doormen were looking at them. “Why would you do that?”

“He grabbed me,” Illya grunted when he really didn’t have anything better to defend himself with.

“And you hit him?” Gaby stormed. “Do you know how embarrassing that was?” Gaby stared at Illya who stared back, both breathing faster than normally. “Are you completely insane?”

Her comment made him lower his gaze and Gaby wasn’t even sorry for that. She turned back around when she couldn’t look at Illya. Gaby knew the meeting was going to end up in a mess, but she hadn’t anticipated this. She waved at the black cab that was driving towards them. It stopped and Illya walked from behind her, pulled the door open like it was his attempt to make amends. His hand guided her slightly in and Gaby pushed it away. “Don’t you dare to touch me,” she hissed.

Illya gritted his teeth when Gaby scowled at him. He knew this was bad. He could see the anger and fear in her eyes and he knew it wasn’t something he could wipe away easily. Or maybe at all. She kept staring out of the window the whole cab ride back to her apartment. There no words either of them wanted to say.


	13. Thoroughbred

There was light in the apartment when Illya got back. Gaby’s coat was hanging from the coatrack. Illya took his coat and hung it next to hers. He set his cap away carefully, only to buy time before facing her. He took off his shoes that the wet street had soaked. Gaby was in the kitchen, standing in front of the refrigerator and looking in.

“I got groceries,” Illya said and those were the first words said in that apartment since before they had left to Savoy on Sunday. Gaby straightened her back and glanced at him. Illya lifted the grocery bag as confirmation.

Gaby stepped aside, left the refrigerator door open and let Illya put the groceries away. She had stayed at the garage late last night, they had hardly spent more than a few minutes in the same room after returning from the party. They had slept in the same bed, but both had been lying on the very edges of it, firmly turning their backs to each other.

Illya wondered should he maybe return to his own apartment. He had gone there after the accident, mostly to check was it still there. It was; looked pretty much like he remembered. During the two years he had forgotten he had brought a square grey armchair that he liked. Saturday he had gone there again, to pick up his suit for the party. The place was like in hibernation. And still right now he would rather be there than here, being scowled at by Gaby.

While Illya put the food in the refrigerator Gaby peeked over his shoulder to see what he had bought. She got a frying pan and kettle ready on the stove. She leaned against it, her arms crossed, waited for Illya to finish. She wasn't going to ask him to hand anything to her, that would mean she would have to talk to him. She was merely going to wait for him to finish and then she would take what she needed. Illya closed the refrigerator and Gaby went to open it. She took the newspaper-wrapped fish out.

“Do you need help?” Illya asked stiffly. He had already talked so he could talk more.

Gaby lifted the newspaper wrap. “Would you like to hit this or do you think it’s already dead?” she asked callously and stared at him straight in the eyes.

Illya gritted his teeth and walked out of the kitchen. He sat on the living-room couch, looked at the ugly orange armchair. He hated that chair. He stood back up, he would go to his own apartment. He wasn't officially living here, and he didn't really even know Gaby; there was no reason to stay. He stopped when Gaby came from the kitchen with a trash bag.

She didn’t ask or order him to take the bag. She only handed it over, looked away from him, hummed shortly and unwillingly and waited until Illya took the bag from her.

Illya went to pull his shoes on. He hesitated with the coat. Trash he could take without the coat, but if he pulled it on he could leave at the same time.

Gaby came to the door. “Do you want carrots or broccoli or both?” she asked, sounding bored like she didn’t really want to ask but still was there asking and wasn’t sure why that was.

“Both,” Illya said and she left. He didn't take his coat. He had given an opinion regarding the dinner so it would be polite to stay and eat it. He could leave after that. His own place was maybe bare and less cozy but at least there the mood wasn’t this oppressive.

At the dinner table they both ate silently, looking at their plates. Gaby poked her food around between bites, Illya leaned his elbow on the table unlike ever before. Cutlery clinked against the porcelain and the clock on the wall appeared ticking so loudly it almost hurt their ears.

“Does that happen often?” Gaby asked finally and broke the silence. She didn’t look at Illya, but kept staring at her food instead. “Losing your temper, hitting people?”

Illya hesitated. “Was this first time it happened?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gaby said, and feared she only made disservice when she couldn't really tell. She didn’t know how often this happened.

Illya nodded. “Sometimes it happens. Mostly I can control it,” he paused and quickly glanced at her. “I thought you knew about it. You seem to know much of things I thought I would never tell anybody and still you know. I thought you knew this.”

Gaby swallowed, felt guilty. She moved her food around on the plate and then finally faced Illya and stared at him. “Should I be afraid?”

Illya looked back at her and saw in her eyes that she was being serious. She really did wonder and that felt horrible, to make her even doubt that he could ever hurt her. “No,” Illya said quietly and felt a lump in his throat. “I promise.”

Gaby nodded slightly but didn’t really look like she believed him. The silence returned and the clock clanked like they were sitting inside of it. Gaby lifted her head back up. “I knew you had mental problems when you were a child,” she blurted and Illya’s posture tensed up. “Eleven institutions in three years, electroshock treatments, lots of medication,” Gaby told and Illya's gaze wandered anxiously around the room, anywhere but on her. “I knew about all that. But I didn’t know there was still something.”

“It is there,” Illya muttered and turned to stare his plate. “Volati -”

“Volatile personality disorder,” Gaby interrupted. “I know.”

“Mostly I can control it when I feel like the episodes come,” Illya muttered and still kept his eyes on his plate. “But then sometimes it… I can not and I…”

“Hit people in Savoy?” Gaby suggested dryly. She knew she was sounding more judgmental than she meant to.

“Yes,” Illya said quietly.

Gaby could see how ashamed he was. And now it made her feel bad, unlike the early hours of Monday, when she had shouted at him outside of Savoy.

“I met him earlier.” Illya decided to tell what happened and let Gaby decide how bad it was. “He was rude when I was already angry. And then he stood very close to you and… it bothered me. I did not like how he spoke. It looked like there was something between you two,” he finished and confessed that the main issue had been jealousy.

“There was,” Gaby said and decided that when Illya told the truth she would too. “I had just defected. I was in the west, in Rome, and he flattered me,” Gaby admitted. Illya turned his eyes on her. “He was married and I knew it was stupid. But in that moment it felt like a very good idea, very exciting. But it was nothing. It was… something fun, nothing serious. There is nothing anymore, if you were afraid of that.”

Illya looked at Gaby and weighed the things she had said. “Did I know before?”

“No,” Gaby decided.

He nodded slightly, ate a mouthful, bought himself some time. “I am sorry,” he said. “Not for hitting him, I think he deserved that,” he said tensely and refused to believe otherwise. “But I am sorry for causing troubles for you.” The honesty was new to him, and talking about his feelings and life. But if felt nice to have somebody who he could tell things if he wanted to, share his life with somebody. “I hope you believe when I say I would never hurt you. I would never -”

“I believe,” Gaby said and took a quick breath of air. “I believe,” she reassured him and told the truth. She wasn't sure was it the wisest thing to feel but that was how she felt. She looked at him across the table and knew she would be safe with him. Safe from him and safe from others, Illya would make sure of that too.

“Your uncle probably hates me now even more,” Illya said and was sorry about that. Not for his own sake; he didn’t like her uncle and he didn't need him to like him. But he was sorry if that would cause worries for Gaby.

“Yes,” Gaby admitted. “He called to tell that he doesn’t approve of you,” she told and went back to staring her dinner. “Apparently I’m making a bad choice.”

Illya took a deep breath. He couldn't change that. He wanted to ask what it meant for their relationship, but he didn’t want to hear if her answer was that they should end it.

Gaby ate a mouthful slowly and looked back to Illya. “But he is wrong about one thing,” she said and Illya looked at her under his brows. “You look like you could easily pull carts. And that is sort of what you do. And I think you prefer that. You like doing it and it’s more meaningful than running on tracks,” Gaby spoke. For a moment she paused just to look at Illya’s face; his blue eyes and long lashes, and that scar next to his eye which she didn’t know where he had gotten. She wanted to ask but she would’ve asked earlier and she should already know. “But deep down you are definitely a racehorse. Thoroughbred with a golden mane, running faster than anybody else,” Gaby said. She was still staring and lowered her gaze quickly before she blushed, kept poking her dinner.

Illya stared at her. He wasn’t sure was he starting to remember her or was the emotion he felt his second love he was beginning to feel for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So instead of a big fight, I took more calm and emotional road. Hope you are not too disappointed for the lack of yelling and scowling and unresolved sexual tension:)


	14. Dancer

Illya had crossed his arms on his chest. He leaned against the the chair and looked at Gaby emotionally. That was what he needed to do. If he didn’t concentrate at looking serious he would make a fool of himself by staring at her like she was the most wonderful thing in the world. Maybe she was, but Illya wasn’t going to look like that.

They were in a little studio in Islington, and he wondered was it this room where she had gotten her friction burns. The floor was worn out from all the pirouettes it had endured during the years, there was mirror covering two of the walls. In the corner of the room was a record player; Stravinsky filled the room. Gaby was nothing like Illya had expected.

After two days of silence and scowling the mood in the apartment was relaxed again. It was nice to be friendly with each other. Two nights they had slept on the very edges of the bed and now the relief apparently had made both of them roll to the middle of it. Illya was sure that when the alarm went off, Gaby had been sleeping with her forehead pressed against his shoulder. And then after work she had come into the kitchen where Illya had spread his work papers on the table. He was on a sick leave but found it hard to stay idle.

“I’m going dancing,” Gaby said. “Do you want to go with me?”

Illya lifted his head up from the papers faster than he wanted to and noticed it. He frowned slightly and tried to look indifferent.

“But you look busy,” Gaby teased. She had a bag on her shoulder.

Illya shook his head. “This is not important. I do not need to work,” he assured her and got up. He pressed his mouth tightly shut and suppressed his groan when the rapid movement hurt his hip.

“I was going to leave straight away, if you are ready,” Gaby said.

Illya hummed and Gaby tried to hide her smile. She went to pull her coat on. Illya followed her. Gaby wrapped a checked scarf on her neck and covered her smile with it.

And now they were in the studio and she was dancing and it was not like the ballet Illya had got used to. The ballerinas Illya had seen were on the stage, always a little farther away, unobtainable. They had stiff tutus on, tight buns, powdered faces like they were porcelain dolls. They danced in a straight lines and in perfect formations.

But Gaby was dancing on the same level with him, so close. He could see her tightening muscles and when eventually her grey top started to sweat from her back. She only had a ponytail that moved along with her. Tights and legwarmers instead of tulle. Red cheeks, no powder. She was lively and Illya was sure he was out of breath like she was just from looking at her.

She wasn't perfect, but good. Illya wondered if he would have liked her more a few years earlier when she still danced at the Berlin Ballet School, training daily. Then she probably had been perfect. But Illya thought that he preferred her now. A few years ago she had been the porcelain doll, covered with tulle, in a perfect formation with other dolls. Now she was a petite mechanic who just happened to dance ballet. That made her only that much more interesting.

Gaby finished with a grande reverence, like she used to do. She didn’t do it when she danced alone, but now she did it for Illya. She was much more relaxed than she had been before she started. Then she had been nervous. She had put the music on, set the needle on the record and stepped to the middle of the room. She had clenched her hands into fists quickly before taking her spot, waited her moment, and started.

Her ankle bent, she staggered and barely managed to straighten herself before tumbling onto the floor. She frowned and gritted her teeth at her own clumsiness, and quickly peeked at Illya over her shoulder. She felt stupid. Illya didn't look particularly disappointed, he didn't look particularly anything but himself. Gaby went back to the record player and lifted the needle up.

“I'm nervous,” she confessed. She wasn’t sure why, she had performed countless times, for important people. This was only one fake fiancé. “I don’t… I said that you think I’m good,” she made up an excuse. “But I don't know is that true. Maybe you have said that just to be nice and now you are disappointed when I’m not as good as you expected me to be.”

“I would not lie about something like that,” Illya said, but wasn’t sure. “Do not worry about that.”

Gaby set the needle back on record and the music started from the beginning. Again she took her place and waited for her mark. Now she didn’t mess right from the start. She decided not to care how much her talent had been rusty from two years of dancing for fun. Maybe Illya wasn't that picky. He did like ballet, but maybe he wouldn’t judge her like he would judge professionals on stage. He should be happy that he had his very own ballerina and settle for that.

After her final curtsy Gaby straightened herself up, set her hands on her hips. “Well?” she breathed out and caught her breath. “Was it at least adequate?” She looked at him, waiting, lifted her chin and hid that she was nervous about Illya’s opinion.

Illya tilted his head from side to side. “Yes,” he admitted as seriously as he could. “Adequate.”

Gaby hummed and held her smile. She pursed her mouth and rubbed her heel against the floor.

“You were very good,” Illya said, more softly than he usually said anything. “It was beautiful.”

Gaby kept holding her smile. She didn’t want to show how childishly happy his praise made her. Instead she lifted her chin again. “Well, good,” she sighed like it didn’t matter.

The corners of Illya’s mouth twitched when he saw right through Gaby’s act. He knew it mattered and he was happy that it did. Gaby bent down to stretch her legs. Illya opened his mouth to say something, but closed it immediately. He looked at her, licked quickly his bottom lip and started again. “I went to see ballet for the first time when I was seven,” Illya said. Gaby stopped what she was doing and looked at him. “But you probably know that.” He was surprised when she shook her head.

“What did you see?”

Illya sighed and leaned against the chair’s back. Gaby looked at him, waiting, and now he needed to tell her when he had started. “Sleeping Beauty. My mother liked ballet and she and my father went to see all the productions of Bolshoi. Sleeping Beauty was the first they took me with them,” Illya told. “My mother wanted me to learn to appreciate ballet at a young age.”

Gaby smiled. “Was it a shortened version?” she asked and chuckled lightly when Illya shook his head. “Your parents took a seven-year-old to see a ballet that is almost four hours long?” she asked. “Brave decision.”

“It felt like it was never going to end,” Illya confessed. “And when it was finally over turned out it was only intermission.”

Gaby bit her bottom lip so that she wouldn’t laugh and maybe stop him from finishing the story.

“But I liked it, some of it,” Illya continued. “It was long, yes, and my collar was tight and it was hot in the theater, but there was nice parts too. I liked the fairies and the cats. And the end when everybody came to take their bows on the edge of the stage. I got to clap which was nice after having to sit still for so long.” Illya looked his hands on his lap and remembered. “We sat right behind the orchestra. My father was important and he…” he paused and gazed Gaby. Her small, reassuring smile told that she knew how and where that story had ended. He was surprised he had told that. “So everybody bowed,” Illya continued quickly. “Somebody brought roses for the princess. Pink ones, like her outfit. Big bouquet. She smiled and bowed again and again.”

Slowly Gaby walked across the room to Illya and sat next to him. It was nice to hear him telling his story. She liked his voice and accent; the rumbling Rs that she felt in her stomach.

“The bouquet was badly tied, it opened and some of the flowers fell on the stage,” Illya carried on and glanced Gaby, who was looking at him. “The prince collected the roses, handed them back to to princess. She did not care that the flowers had scattered. She kept smiling. I was clapping, everybody was, but I was a seven-year-old among adults and she looked straight at me.”

“Who was she?” Gaby asked when there was natural pause in the story.

“Marina Semyonova,” Illya said and saw in Gaby’s little nod that she recognized the name like he had expected her to. “She took one of her roses and threw it to me, right over the orchestra pit. Then she finished her bows.”

Gaby hummed. “Well, that explains why you like ballet,” she said and Illya looked at her under his brows. “You were seven and fell in love with the prima ballerina of Bolshoi.” Gaby sighed and pursed her mouth. “So how long were you in love with her?”

Illya lifted his chin the way she did. “Who said that I ever stopped?”

Gaby bit the insides of her cheeks so she wouldn’t laugh.

“You should go finish your stretches. You have some big shoes to fill,” Illya pointed out.

Gaby stood up and shook her head, tried to look as serious as she could. She glanced at Illya over her shoulder. “I should slap you for that,” she noted.

“As long as you do your stretches,” Illya muttered and both of them were trying not smile.


	15. Helper

Gaby set potatoes on the cutting board, held her hand around them to make sure they wouldn’t roll on the floor. The light above her flickered and made her look up. It flashed and then went dark. Gaby grunted annoyed. It was moments like these when the high ceilings of a old building were very inconvenient. Moments like these she wished she lived in a modern building with modern ceiling heights where changing the light bulbs was easy and didn’t require circus tricks.

 

***

 

Illya came in, went to the living-room and continued farther into the kitchen where he heard noises. “What are you doing?” he asked, nonplussed, when he stopped by the door.

Gaby turned to look at him. She stood on top of the table she had dragged to the middle of the dark room. She was wearing high heels which seemed odd because Illya had gotten used to seeing her mostly barefooted in the apartment. She had put one chair on top of the table with her.

“I’m changing the bulb,” Gaby breathed out. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Why is there a chair on the table?” Illya asked and pointed at it.

“I can’t reach the ceiling only by standing on the table because of these stupid high ceilings,” Gaby huffed clearly annoyed.

Illya nodded. “Yes. Horrible high ceilings,” he muttered.

Gaby glared at him and was sure he was trying not to smile.

“Are the shoes for the extra height too?” Illya asked, interested.

Gaby looked at her feet. “Yes.”

“Do you really need it if you have that chair?” Illya reasoned. “Your structure seems quite unstable even without the heels.”

Gaby kicked her shoes off and pushed them on the floor. “Better?” she asked and set her knee on the chair. “Hand me the light bulb,” she asked and pointed at the new bulb on the table.

“Maybe I should change it?” Illya suggested. “I can do it without the chair. It would be safer.”

“I can do this by myself,” Gaby said sharply. She set both of her feet back on the table and put her hands on her hips. “This isn’t the first time I’ve changed the light bulb.”

“I did not say you can not do it,” Illya assured when Gaby was so adamant about doing things by herself. “But I could do it more easily.”

“But I don’t need help,” Gaby claimed. “Besides your hip is still injured.”

“I can stand still perfectly fine,” Illya promised. “Are you always this stubborn when I offer my help?”

Gaby huffed slightly, pursed her mouth and looked away. “Yes,” she muttered. She didn’t know but she could assume she would be.

“That is good to know,” Illya said, amused. He gazed at Gaby under his brows. She looked so determined and annoyed standing on the table. “Can I help you?” he asked. “Not because you can not by yourself, but because I want to.”

Gaby rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she sighed like she was giving up something far bigger than her right to climb on a rickety furniture pile in the dark kitchen.

“Come on,” Illya urged and gestured her closer. Gaby stepped to the edge of the table. Illya reached his hand to her waist and pulled her towards him. Gaby gasped when she was sure she would lose her balance and tumble down. But Illya’s hand slipped under the back of her knees and he scooped her in his arms very easily and let her slide on the floor.

Gaby hummed and tried to look very unimpressed at how easily he had lifted her down from the table. Illya got on the table and Gaby handed the new bulb to him.

“Did you switch the light off?” he asked.

Gaby frowned. “If I did that how would I know if the bulb is screwed in properly? I would have to climb up there all over again if it didn’t light.”

“If it is defective you could get electric shock and fall down,” Illya pointed out.

“That has never happened,” Gaby said. She went to the wall and switched the light switch, lifting her brows to Illya.

Illya screwed the burned bulb out and replaced it. “Try it,” he asked and Gaby switched the light back on. The slightly swinging lamp illuminated the kitchen again.

“See, perfectly fine,” Gaby said smugly.

Illya got down from the table and took the chair down. It felt nice to be able to do things again even when the leg still felt sore when he had to lean his weight onto it. Gaby looked somewhat annoyed that he had changed the bulb. “We should not risk it,” Illya said. “It would be a shame if you were to fall down from a furniture tower and broke your neck.”

Gaby crossed her arms on her chest and moped slightly.

“Maybe next time you will accept help more easily,” Illya suggested. Gaby glared at him and he pressed a kiss to her forehead when he walked by her. He found her stubbornness quite adorable.

Gaby was surprised that he had kissed her. The kiss left moistness on her forehead that felt cool. Gaby glanced at Illya, wondered how he would react if she asked another one; slower, longer, pressed lower onto her face. She threw the burned-out light bulb in the trash can and pointed to the potatoes on the cutting board. “Well I don’t really feel like making the dinner. So you can help by making that,” she said, still a little annoyed, and pushed kissing out of her mind.

“Fine,” Illya said. He didn’t have a problem with that. He was on sick leave while she went to work. He could make the dinner.

It was weird that Illya was willing to make the dinner. “Well, fine,” she muttered, frowned at him and left. She didn’t see Illya looking at her over his shoulder, holding his grin. Gaby slumped on the couch and sighed. She didn’t quite know what to do. She hadn't got used to somebody being there for her; offering help and being thoughtful. And now it was weird and annoyed her. It was like Illya was being deliberately nice.

Illya came to the door and leaned on the doorframe. “Would you like a glass of wine? he asked.

Gaby rolled her eyes when Illya couldn’t see her face. The situation was approaching ridiculous. Soon he would ask how her day went or offer to massage her feet or something else equally incomprehensible. “Yes,” she answered between her teeth.

Illya nodded. “How was your day?” he asked when he returned to the kitchen.

Gaby scowled at his back over her shoulder.


	16. Architect

Illya looked the pictures on the table of the smaller conference room. He didn’t need to work but he had still come to find out what kinds of projects they were working on. Most of the employees had already left for home. Two men had greeted at him at the door when he came in. Illya only recognized one of them. Now he sat down behind the table, touched the lines on the paper like that was going to make the pictures any more real.

“Aren't you on a sick leave?” Napoleon asked when he stepped in and pointed at him.

Illya gazed at him lazily. “Do you even work here?” he asked suspiciously.

“I have a contract with the building in Fulham,” Napoleon explained. “They want French revival.”

Illya was about to ask what they were building in Fulham but decided not to. Instead he turned back to the pictures on the table. “This looks good,” he said.

“Is it because you can see from your initials that you designed it?” Napoleon grinned.

“It is a good building. It does not matter who designed it,” Illya said. But of course it was better because it was his.

“Is this what you came to do on Friday night?” Napoleon asked. “Don't you have a fiancée to entertain?”

“I am meeting her in half an hour,” Illya said and glanced at his watch. “We eat dinner out Fridays after work,” he explained. He closed his mouth, frowned, and glanced at Cowboy. “But that is not really your business.”

“You can’t glare at me if you told without me asking,” Napoleon pointed out and shook his head, amused. “You don’t look too fancy. Please don’t tell me that you’re taking her to some cheap place.”

“We go to pubs,” Illya said. “She likes those.”

“Sounds romantic,” Napoleon muttered.

Illya hadn’t thought it was romantic. It had been nice last week and he was looking forward to it now. He had nothing against fancy restaurants, but he had thought it was a nice tradition to have Friday dinner in a pub. It was casual and he liked the food that reminded him more of home cooking than restaurant dishes. He liked the dim lighting and wood panels on the walls. He liked how Gaby had last week ordered steak and kidney pie and then listed all the places she had ordered it before and what had been her favorites. The place they were going today was on her list of good places to eat steak and kidney pie. Illya had already promised to order it because Gaby felt he should.

Now he wondered should they do something more romantic. Or should  _ he _ do something for her. Gaby seemed quite pleased as it was but maybe she just accepted everything because of his amnesia. Maybe he should buy her flowers.

“Should I -” Illya started, looked at Cowboy and then shut his mouth when he realized what he was doing.

Napoleon grinned. “Do ask. I promise not to mock you,” he assured him.

“When does construction start?” Illya asked instead, trying to sound a little bored and pointing at the picture.

“In March,” Napoleon said and leaned his palms on the table.

Illya hummed as an answer. He didn’t know what kind of flowers Gaby liked. Of course he could buy any flowers. He could buy her red roses. But those were impersonal; anybody could pick red roses. Red roses was what the men of the office brought to their wives when their secretaries reminded them that it was some special day. Red roses was what the secretaries bought when the men were too busy to go buy the flowers themselves. It was a classical choice, but boring and safe. It didn’t need that much more of an effort to find out did your wife prefer yellow roses instead, or maybe daisies. Illya didn’t want to buy just any flowers for Gaby, he wanted to buy her favorite flowers. Maybe Gaby liked daisies. Maybe she would prefer chocolate.

“The client apparently wants a similar building in Manchester,” Napoleon said. “They probably asked you to design that too.”

Illya hummed. The little notepad next to Gaby’s phone was full of her doodles. Illya assumed she doodled when she talked on the phone. But she didn't doodle any flowers so that didn’t help him. She doodled engines and gearboxes, elaborate wire labyrinths; very interesting little pictures actually. Maybe he should buy her wrenches instead of flowers. She either would like that or she would get insulted that he assumed she wouldn’t like flowers.

He had never been in a serious relationship and now he wasn't sure what was the right amount of effort. Illya didn’t want to seem too eager, but not too distant either. Gaby had told him to ask if he wanted to know something. But Illya didn’t want to ask. He wanted to know things already or find out himself.

“But they want that to be built from gingerbread, like the witch's cottage,” Napoleon said and checked was Peril even listening.

Illya hummed again and looked at the pictures. He had woken up the night before when his hip ached from rolling over on it. He had corrected his position and when he had been moving, Gaby moved. She didn’t wake, only turned in her sleep, curled against his side, leaned her cheek on his shoulder, sighed deeply. Illya had turned to look at her as much as he could in the dark room and between almost closed eyelids. Under the duvet he set his palm on her bent knee that rested against his thigh and went back to sleep. He only remembered her from the last few weeks, but he was crazy about her. Illya wasn’t sure had he ever been crazy about anything before. But now he was. He wanted to make her happy and keep her smiling. He wanted to be there for her and with her. And he just wanted her, so much it was maybe even ridiculous. 

He just didn’t know how to deal with that. Gaby of course remembered him, but was it the same even for her when he couldn't remember her? And he worried when he didn’t know what she liked in bed. The situation would’ve been different if it had been their first time, but it wasn’t. They had been making love before, he had probably known all the things she liked. And now he couldn’t remember but she still did, she remembered how it had been before the accident, she remembered their last time. And Illya didn’t want to disappoint her. How could he satisfy her in bed when he didn’t even know her favorite flowers?

“They want the yard paved with liquorice,” Napoleon said.

Illya hummed and frowned. And he wasn't very good with first moves. He didn’t always read situations that well. He needed to be sure what Gaby really wanted before they did anything. It would be easier if she made the first move. But then she probably assumed he didn’t want her when he couldn't remember her.

“And a cage for the children,” Napoleon nodded finally.

“What?” Illya asked when he noticed Cowboy was speaking. “What children?”

“Never mind,” Napoleon grinned. “You obviously had something else on your mind. Someone else, I imagine. So how is that, your relationship? Have you set the wedding date?”

Illya glanced at him. “I don’t know what kind of flowers she likes,” he said.

“Ask her,” Napoleon suggested helpfully and pushed himself off the table.

“I don’t want to ask,” Illya said annoyed. “And I… I don’t know what kind of flowers I bought her before.”

Napoleon frowned. “Is this some metaphor or are we really talking about flowers?” he asked.

Illya glanced at him again and pointed at the pictures. “When will they start to build this?”

“In March,” Napoleon told again.

Illya looked the picture for a while and turned then to look at Cowboy properly. “Why were you talking about gingerbread?”

“It’s Christmas,” Napoleon said and shrugged. 


	17. Foreigner

Gaby leaned against the armrest, her legs bent so that Illya fitted on the other end of the couch to read his book. She had tucked her toes between the couch cushion and his thigh and  he didn’t seem to mind. She flipped through the newspaper and stopped at the movie page. She pulled one foot out and poked Illya’s thigh with her toes. “Want to go to the movies?”

Illya glanced first at her bare toes on his thigh, then at her face. “I don’t care for movies that much,” he said.

Gaby’s brows rose but she kept her eyes on the paper. “I figured it was something you had decided to feel in the last two years and had now forgotten,” she sighed and grinned a little.

Illya hummed and gave in slightly. “What they are showing?” he asked

“James Bond,” Gaby suggested.

“No,” Illya said and reached to yank the paper from Gaby’s fingers. He set the open book on his other thigh; her leg was still on the other. Gaby looked amused when Illya went through the listings. “No. No… no,” he said and handed the paper back.

“You didn’t look at all of them,” Gaby accused.

“I glanced,” Illya said. “That is enough.”

Gaby rolled her eyes and tried to cover her smile. She liked Illya but couldn't say why. It’s not like he was that entertaining to be around all the times. Yet still she liked spending time with him. She felt less restless with him and she was sure Illya did more things with her which he otherwise wouldn’t. Last Christmas she had worked, but now she was going to use her free days that had been piling up because she really had worked the last few years instead of spending time with a fiancé.

“What was wrong with movies again?” she asked. “Too American?”

“That,” Illya nodded “They are… frivolous.”

Gaby hummed and opened the paper again.

“I...” Illya started and Gaby gazed at him over the paper, “I like old black and white movies,” he confessed. “Some of them.”

“Why haven’t you told me?” Gaby said and poked him with her toes again. “There is a little movie theater six blocks away that shows old movies. I think the evening movie starts at eight. We can make that if we leave now.”

“What they are showing?” Illya asked suspiciously.

“They don’t advertise in the paper,” Gaby said and got up. “I don’t know.” She went to the bedroom to yank tights under her skirt. She jumped to the door one leg up and struggled with dressing up. “Let’s go,” she urged when Illya still sat on the couch.

He sighed but got up. He didn’t care about the movie, but Gaby wanted to go and he liked to make her happy. And it probably wouldn't be that bad. He pulled his winter boots and coat on, helped Gaby’s coat on when she got her tights successfully on her legs. She wrapped a scarf on her neck and grabbed her gloves. Illya opened the door and Gaby clicked the light on in the corridor; well executed choreography they both knew even when they hadn’t rehearsed it.

Brisk wind greeted them outside. Gaby took a hold on his arm like she had started to do much to Illya’s liking. She pressed herself close to his side.

“Could be snow when it’s this cold,” Gaby muttered. She lifted her shoulders and buried her face inside her scarf.

Illya agreed. The evenings would be less gloomy if the streetlamps reflected off the snow. He took his arm from Gaby’s hold and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulled her snugly under his arm.

Gaby was pleased when Illya covered her from the cold wind. She wrapped her arm across his back and squeezed his jacket with her fist. Illya glanced at the traffic and guided them over the street to the next sidewalk.

An old lady with a small dog walked past them. She looked at them and smiled and gave a little polite nod as greeting. Illya wasn’t sure was it the first time a stranger had smiled at him. It was the only time he remembered. He wasn't the kind of person strangers looked at and smiled. At least he hadn’t been, maybe now he was. Maybe he was less threatening when he felt so much lighter. Gaby against his side was the reason for his good mood. Her fist squeezing his jacket and the heels of her boots clacking against the pavement felt and sounded good; somebody next to him.

They stopped under the lights of the movie theater. It was small and rundown and Illya was surprised that it was open; it looked abandoned even when the lights were on.

“Orlacs Hände,” Gaby said. “It’s German.”

“I think I have seen this,” Illya suspected when he looked the poster.

Gaby turned to look at him. Her hand still kept its grip on his jacket and Illya’s hand stayed on her shoulders. “Are you joking?” she asked.

“No,” Illya assured. “It is a famous violinist who loses his hand in a train collision. They give him new hands but those belong to a murderer.”

“Sounds morbid,” Gaby exhaled. “Do they speak German?”

“It is a silent film,” Illya said.

“Old, morbid silent film,” Gaby snorted. “Lovely.” She looked up at Illya and smiled.

“We don’t have to go,” he pointed out.

“No, no,” Gaby said. “You insisted on going to the movies. Here we are,” she said, pulling away from under his arm and feeling immediately chilly. “I am going to need a lot of popcorn,” she informed him, opened the theatre door and gestured Illya in very politely. The corners of his mouth twitched when he walked past her.

Only a handful of people were there with them. Gaby didn’t wonder; a German silent film didn’t sound like something that would interest many people. She ate her popcorn and leaned slightly against Illya.

“Pianist,” she whispered when Illya had remembered wrong.

He glanced at her and huffed when she looked little smug, took popcorn and lifted his hand to rest on top of the backrests. He didn’t really touch her, but his fingertips brushed her from time to time.

“This is the most boring movie I have seen,” Gaby whispered when she again leaned closer to him.

Illya let his hand slip on her shoulder now when she was already closer, his lips twitched.

“And they showed propaganda films to us in school,” Gaby reminded.

“Those were good Soviet quality, I am sure. Probably very interesting,” Illya suspected near Gaby’s ear and she chuckled.

Somebody shushed them and Gaby glanced over her shoulder. “Now we are making too much noise. Somebody can’t hear the silent film,” she whispered.

“Maybe they like the music,” Illya muttered.

“Well, it’s good German music. There is no denying that,” Gaby said quietly.

“Hey,” somebody said loudly. “Be quiet.”

Gaby giggled and covered her mouth with her hand.

“Sorry,” Illya apologized over his shoulder and held his smile.

“Keep your woman quiet,” the same voice muttered so that they could hear.

Illya’s face tensed up, his hand slipped from Gaby’s shoulders and he turned so he could see over the seats, somewhere in the corner where the voice had come. “What did you say?” he asked firmly.

Gaby straightened her back. “Leave it,” she asked.

“I said keep your woman quiet,” the voice said. “Some of us are trying to watch this.”

“It is a silent film,” Illya huffed.

“We’ll be quiet,” Gaby promised and waved her hand of a some sort of apology. “Let’s just watch the film.”

“Foreigners,” the voice huffed.

“It is a foreign film,” Illya hissed between his teeth and started to get up.

Gaby pulled him back down by his shoulders. “You stay right there,” she ordered.

“If he can shout from there he can say it to my face,” Illya said firmly.

“Do you really think I’m going to let you go?” she huffed. “Go to punch him or twist him into a knot? You are not going.”

“We will see about that,” Illya said and was trying to get up again.

Gaby grabbed his neck and kept him down. She knew she didn’t had enough strength to keep him still so she used what she had: the element of surprise. She kept her grip on his neck, kept pinning him against the seat with her own body weight and quickly craned her head closer to him. Illya was about to argue with her when Gaby’s kiss hit him on the lips. It was going to be quick and small, only a peck. But instead their mouths locked together partly opened and suddenly it was a warm kiss that startled both of them. It made Gaby freeze still instead of pulling straight away like she had planned. Illya felt his skin rise into goosebumps. Gaby grabbed the armrest so she could push herself apart from him. 

“Sorry,” Gaby muttered when she didn't quite know what to say. She could see him in the light coming from the screen but couldn’t look at him in the eyes.

Illya shook his head slightly. He was sure kissing was what they were meant to do; they were engaged. And kissing was what he wanted to do with her. Gaby wasn’t a stranger any more. He had known her more than two weeks, met her every day, slept in the same bed. She was a stubborn mechanic and ballerina from East Berlin. She made his tea too sweet and left crumbs on table. She teased him and didn’t treat him like he was made from glass even when his hip was sore and he could barely walk. She tilted her head when she put perfume on her neck, made him feel very comfortable in the apartment regardless that the situation was weird for her too. He liked her more than he had ever liked anybody.

Illya’s hand touched her chin, moved along her jawbone towards her neck. His touch was careful like he wanted to give her a chance to pull away if she wanted. His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, and Gaby’s lips parted, waiting to see what he would do. She held back her sigh and let him pull her into another kiss. Her eyes closed when she leaned into his arms. 

It was nice to be kissing at the movies. It was nice to kiss him anywhere. It was nice to come home to somebody, wake up next to somebody. Gaby was sure she had gradually started to sleep closer and closer to Illya. It was cozy to wake up next to him, but it was harder to get up from the bed when there was the choice to stay there, curl closer and soak in his warmth. Now she cuddled closer to him, soaked in his warmth in the movie theater. His arms around her were warm and his mouth even warmer and when his tongue licked hers it made her feel almost hot. Their relationship wasn't that normal or even a real relationship, and yet it felt very real and very normal. And so very good.

Illya forgot that he was going to hit somebody, Gaby forget the plot of the movie and the popcorn that fell on the floor, scattered around. Their kiss tasted sweet and salty at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hands of Orlac (Orlacs Hände, 1924); still the only movie that has make me fall asleep in the movie theater.


	18. Washer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a little [holiday picture](http://edenforest.tumblr.com/post/154602966015/character-aesthetics-the-man-from-uncle). It's not specifically for this story (it can be, if you ignore the gun with a golden bow, because there hasn't been any guns) but it's there for those who like my edits to see.

Gaby got in the bathtub, submerged in the bubbles and immediately realized she had forgot to pour herself a drink like she had planned to. She made a frustrated huff. Now she would spread foam everywhere, leave wet footprints on the floors and make a puddle when she poured her drink. At least it wouldn’t be the first time. She grabbed the edge of the tub before realizing it was all unnecessary.

“Illya!” she shouted through the door. “I forgot my drink! Could you?”

He knocked on the door.

“I asked for a drink. I knew you were going to come in,” Gaby remarked.

Illya opened the door, handed her the glass.

“Thank you,” Gaby said and he left, pulled the door closed. Her forehead furrowed right away. She wasn’t sure what was going on. Or what Illya wanted. He had said that she looked beautiful in Savoy, they had been kissing in the movies only yesterday, and he had very much enjoyed that, Gaby was sure. He acted as if he liked her, looked at her like he was interested, but then nothing happened. Just now he had clearly looked at her only in the face until it was evident that she was safely covered with bubbles. 

Gaby rested her elbow on the edge of the tub, rubbed her forehead with her fingers and sipped her drink. She wasn’t sure what she was doing wrong. She looked down even though she could only see the bubbles. Maybe her breasts were too small.

Illya did like ballerinas and she had assumed that she would automatically please his eye, but maybe he still would prefer somebody with more curves. Somebody softer and shapelier. It annoyed her that he didn't want her. Of course it was his own decision to desire whomever he chose. But still he could wanted her. It would be polite because she wanted him. 

Gaby gulped her drink down and cleared her throat. “Illya!” she shouted again. “I need another!”

This time he didn’t knock, only stepped in and opened the bottle. Gaby lifted her glass and bubbles ran slowly down her wet arm.

“Thank you,” she muttered when Illya poured the drink. He closed the bottle and Gaby took a sip. She tilted her head and decided to take a chance; the worst thing was that he would say no and Gaby could survive that. “Want to join in?” she asked. She tried to be like it didn’t matter what Illya said.

He looked slightly confused, which he tried to hide by frowning. “In the bath?” he made sure and Gaby nodded. “I do not think we both fit,” Illya suspected.

“We did before,” Gaby claimed and shrugged her shoulders. “It doesn't matter. You go finish your game.”

Illya nodded and left Gaby in the bathroom alone. He returned to the couch and looked at his chessboard. Gaby had asked him to join her into the bath and he had said no. Illya stared at the pieces on the board, the carefully planned strategy, and frowned. He couldn't believe he had said no. He knocked the pieces down with his hand, scattered them over the board and the coffee table, a few pawns rolled onto the floor and he didn’t pick them up. Instead he got up and grabbed the bottle again.

Gaby stared at the white tiles on the wall. Of course she would survive if Illya said no, but it’s not like she liked it. She couldn't believe he had said no.

Illya yanked the door open suddenly and she jerked from the surprise. He took her glass and Gaby was going to protest, but when Illya gulped her drink down himself she was left to look at him, confused. Illya splashed more vodka into the glass and handed it back to her. He set the bottle on the edge of the sink, the glass clinked sharply and clearly against the porcelain. He pulled his turtleneck over his head and mussed his hair.

Gaby looked on silently as he threw the shirt on the hamper and admired how the movements made his muscles move under his skin. He started opening his belt buckle. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Coming in the tub,” Illya said and looked determined, like he had made up his mind and he wasn't going to think about it any more so he wouldn't hesitate with the execution. “You asked.”

Gaby mumbled back, not with any particular words, mostly she managed out some syllables, a hum and a little flick with her hand. She watched him throw his slacks at the hamper. He hit poorly and the belt buckle clanked against the tile floor. He pulled his socks off and only hesitated when his thumbs were already under the waistband of his briefs. Gaby turned her head in case her staring bothered him. And she didn’t need to stare at his groin anyway. From the corner of her eye she could see Illya stripping off his briefs. She took a deep breath and tried not to look when he stepped closer to the tub. He got in and Gaby’s eyes wandered straight to his crotch; she couldn’t help herself. She huffed slightly and hummed quietly, took a gulp from her drink and reminded herself that this was not first time she was in this situation. She hadn’t bathed with anybody but she had been naked with a man before. There was no need blushing like a teenager. It would be easier if Illya didn’t look like somebody very skilful and generous had carved him out of marble.

When Illya sat down the water rose. Gaby quickly lifted her glass when the bathwater spilled over the tub, took most of the bubbles with it, and soaked the fluffy rug on the bathroom floor. She craned her face up and grabbed the edge of the tub to get herself higher before she submerged fully. The whole tub was suddenly full of limbs. Gaby kept her hold on the tub when their legs tangled together when both of them tried to find their places and the water kept splashing on the floor.

“How did we fit before?” Illya asked and moved his legs, tried not stare at her directly. His every movement seemed to hit more and more of her naked skin.

“The tub is shrunken, I think,” Gaby muttered. She was fully aware that there was only a thin layer of froth on top of the bathwater. Her every movement made it move and crack apart. Gaby had always thought that bathing with somebody would be romantic, but this was only cramped and made both of them uncomfortable.

She muttered German curses when she got frustrated and rolled her eyes. With difficulty she turned her back to Illya, shoved his legs under the water and backed against him. He tensed up when her buttocks pressed against his groin. He moved his legs like Gaby wanted, followed her shoves under the surface. Finally she settled between his legs, leaned against his chest. Illya set his arms on the edge of the tub. Both stopped moving and Gaby held her breath like she was waiting for something to happen.

“There,” she sighed. “Easy.”

Illya hummed when he disagreed but wasn’t really sorry about the end result. He relaxed behind Gaby and leaned against the bathtub. The water was nice and warm and Gaby felt good against him. He knew that she was so close that she would notice how good she felt if he wasn't careful.

Gaby moved her hand near his and nudged it with her glass until Illya took it from her hand. She tensed her muscles and pulled herself to sit. Illya sipped her drink and looked at her wet back and shoulder blades that moved under her skin when she reached her hand towards a narrow shelf on the wall. He wanted to reach out with his hand and press it between her shoulder blades, feel her skin under his hand. She took a sponge, rubbed it against a bar of soap, handed it over her shoulder.

“Wash my back?” Gaby asked while there was the opportunity to get somebody do it for her.

Illya took the sponge and Gaby twisted around and took her glass back. She hunched her shoulders when Illya set the sponge on her skin. He started between her shoulder blades like he had wanted, even though he was touching her with the sponge. Underwater his elbow rested against his bent knee, above the surface his fingers took a gentle hold of her arm while he kept washing her back. He was slow and thorough. The sponge submerged under the surface and then traveled back up, slid high on her neck. Gaby bent her head down and echoed his movement with her own. The wet strands of hair on her neck, loose from her messy bun, brushed Illya’s knuckles.

She reached over the the edge of the tub to set her empty glass on the floor and leaned slowly back against him, her soapy skin pressing against his chest. Illya’s hand kept smoothing her shoulders with the sponge. Gaby straightened her arm and Illya continued even when Gaby could very easily wash her own arms. But both liked it when Illya did it. Gaby leaned her head back, rested it against his neck, tilted it towards him. Illya kept slowly swirling the sponge over her collarbones and lower onto her chest. Gaby closed her eyes. The warm water and alcohol relaxed her, and Illya’s touch made it even nicer. She couldn’t help the sigh that came out of her.

Illya looked down, glanced at her face and closed eyelids, allowed his gaze to travel down her chest. The thin layer of bubbles was almost disappeared. He could see her small breasts and pink nipples, the patch of brown hair between her legs she had bent and set to rest against his thigh. He swallowed and could feel how he slowly got harder against her buttocks. Illya wanted to correct his position, pull himself away from her so she wouldn’t notice. But if he moved she would definitely notice.

There wasn’t anything he hadn’t washed that was above the surface. He submerged the sponge and slowly moved it lower than before. He liked bathing with her but couldn’t decide was it more cozy or arousing.

“Are my breasts too small?” Gaby asked quietly, her eyes still closed. She was relaxed and didn’t really care was she being too frank.

Illya didn’t have to turn to estimate the situation, he was already looking at her. He let the sponge slide boldly over her breast underwater. She sighed a little deeper than before, but didn’t protest. “No,” Illya said. Small yes, but not  _ too _ small.

Gaby hummed and Illya let go of the sponge. “Let’s see,” he muttered, lips brushing her earlobe. He was curious how far she would let him go. His hands submerged and set against her skin, fingers tracing where her ribs ended. He cupped her breast, gently squeezed her.

Gaby bit her lower lip but couldn’t keep her lips from parting when a keen gasp escaped from her. Her body moved under his hand, quivered from the touch.

Illya liked her reaction. He moved his fingers slightly, squeezed again, made her let out a new delicious sound. Her back arched and her head bent back to rest on his shoulder. Her movement made her chest rise above the surface. Touching her was good, seeing his own hands on her even better. Her nipples between his thumb and index finger were hard when he caressed her.

“You are,” Illya twisted his head so he got close to her ear again, “proportional,” he murmured. Immediately that sounded wrong, not like it had imagined it in his head. “It… It was a compliment,” he promised.

Gaby smiled, her eyes still closed. “I know,” she assured him and whined quietly when Illya grabbed her, harder, tilted his head to kiss her neck. Anybody else saying that would’ve made her open her eyes, lift her brows and probably huff with displeasure. Proportional wasn’t really that good of a compliment. But Illya liked things like that; he liked symmetry and uniformity. Him saying it made her lips curl into a pleased smile. And it was hard to imagine that he didn’t enjoy everything she had to offer when he was touching her, playing with her nipples and sucking her neck like he was going to devour her. And Gaby wanted to be devoured.

Ten days ago she had held herself back in the bedroom when he had kissed her neck, but not now. Now she let him see how good it felt. It made chills run down her spine even in the warm bathwater. Apparently he wanted her after all. She suspected that he just wasn’t sure was it okay to want her. Now he was hard between her buttocks and Gaby’s lips parted as she panted quietly. She licked her bottom lip and lifted her arm, bent it back and grabbed him behind his neck, sank her fingers into his hair. She wanted it to be crystal clear that he could want her as much as he pleased and he could act on that want.

She turned her head, as far as it went, as near him as she could. Illya captured her lips with his own. She tried to turn and the bathwater kept splashing on the floor.


	19. Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you are a child or not a fan of mature fics, then… I don’t really know what to suggested here, maybe skip this chapter or approach with caution. I would rate this chapter Mature. I mean they were naked in the bathtub last time, so most of you can probably guess where that leads. But I tried to keep it being overly anatomical, because of that nature of the fic, I don’t think very anatomical smut would’ve fit in here.  
> Now you know. Or at least if you read this.

Gaby wanted to give a more experienced picture of herself than she really was. She always wanted to be confident and direct and brave. She liked to act like nothing was ever new to her and nothing made her nervous. When Illya’s warm mouth and even warmer tongue kissed her between her thighs where everything already was pulsating and on the verge of an explosion, when his hand caressed her breast and everything he did made her whimper, it was very hard to act like it wasn’t better than anything ever.

In East Berlin she had never suggested anything like that to her boyfriend. In the expensive hotel, in a luxurious bed, in a soft haze from the champagne she had never tasted before, Alexander Vinciguerra was the first who to sink his face between her thighs and make Gaby see stars. To the men she had dated in London she had suggested that. None seemed that keen to do it and the matter got postponed. Gaby didn’t know would it someday maybe happen, she didn't continue any of the relationships for long after that. With Illya she didn’t make suggestions. She was going to wait and let them get comfortable with each other first and only later ask was it something he would be willing to do. She never got that far.

The bathwater started to lose its heat, fingers were already turning wrinkly. Gaby had a pale love bite on her neck and her body was bounding from lust. She could barely breathe from her panting and Illya’s kisses.

When they finally got out of the tub the rug under their feet squished and splashed. They wet the bedspread when they got on it and with a lot of difficulty pushed and yanked it away from under them. Gaby giggled at their clumsiness even though she didn’t mind. She grabbed his face and kept kissing him. She didn’t want to let go of him, not let him part any farther from her.

His hand moved bumping and unevenly on her damp skin, down her thigh, so slowly that her skin was prickling. He licked her pink nipple and kissed it. Her chest heaved heavily under his kisses. Illya’s hand searched its way between her legs, his fingers touched her gently. Gaby whined impatiently and even a little desperately. He had touched more than enough in the bathtub to make the lust pound in her veins like there was a diesel engine inside of her, roaring and demanding more. But only now his fingers slowly spread against her, slid between her folds and made her tremble.

Gaby had thought that maybe he was still holding himself back; maybe he still wasn’t sure did he want or did she, or maybe he really was shy after all. But it was evident that Gaby wanted and she could feel that he wanted, and she realized that he was teasing her. He was going to make her beg for it. And right now that wasn’t far. Gaby had enjoyed all the things he had done to make her ready, every touch, but it wasn’t enough.

But then Illya never waited her to beg, nor did he really want her to beg. Not now at least. His hand took hold of her thigh and pushed it up, Gaby’s toes curled against the sheet from anticipation. She expected his kisses to travel back up from her stomach. But instead his back hunched so he could get lower without moving, his face buried between her open thighs and Gaby gasped in surprise.

His kiss was gentle like he was getting familiar with her taste and feel before diving in. Then his tongue came out from between his lips, licked her slowly. Gaby’s inhale trembled and her forehead furrowed as she tried to control her noises.

Ten days ago Illya had wondered would Gaby’s taste bring back his memories. Now he could taste her, he could hear her faint gasps, feel her fingers grabbing his hair and her thighs tensing up on both sides of his head like they did when she danced. It brought no memories to Illya and he didn’t care. It was enough that he could taste her right now. She was sharp and sweet, like champagne and cake and tasting her made him hungry for more.

Illya was sure Gaby would enjoy even if he stopped now only so he could thrust himself inside of her, make love to her like he had been imagining for days. She would be ready for that. But he wanted to finish this. He wanted to kiss and lick her until she came. He couldn't say was this how he had done before but he wanted to do it now. He wanted to let Gaby know that letting him into her bed had been worth it; he was worthy of her.

Gaby’s head bent back and she squirmed on the bed. She knew that if Illya was this ready to do this now he probably would've done this before and she shouldn't act like it was the first time, but she couldn’t help herself. It was impossible to hold herself back when her body was just exposed nerve ends and everlasting burning. The pressure was packing tightly inside of her, she was sure she would burst into flames when she came, maybe cause a small explosion; the bedroom would be scorched but it would be worth it.

Alexander hadn't taken it this far, he had started with his tongue but then moved up and showed all the other tricks he had. But Illya didn't seem like he was going to stop. He took her closer and closer to the release with every lick and every kiss. She bucked her hips up, to get more, but his arm wrapped around her thigh and held her down. His breath against her was warm and the flat of his tongue rubbed her so close that she couldn't breathe properly. Her fingers squeezed around his hair more firmly, Illya’s hand smoothed over her, caressed her breast and the release came.

The dam broke and the pressure erupted from her. All her muscles tensed up, relaxed and tensed again. Her thick moans filled the room, thighs were shaking and everything was pulsating without any control. Illya didn’t stop and Gaby squeezed her eyes shut like it was going to make her survive this. She bit her bottom lip and murmured when his tongue kept rubbing against her. She had to push him to make him stop when she couldn’t take it anymore. “Heilige Scheiße, Illya”, Gaby gasped powerlessly when her back finally relaxed against the bed.

Illya kissed her inside thigh and couldn't help but smile at her German curses she usually saved for when she got frustrated over something. He grabbed the sheet and pulled himself up in the same level with her. She was out of breath, her cheeks red and forehead still furrowed like she was angry or confused over what had happened. Gaby seemed weary but when Illya kissed her she still kissed him back with such a ferocity that it surprised him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, but then relaxed like she was too weak to use them. Her wet and warm kiss tasted like her lust.

Illya set his weight on her, settled between her thighs. When Gaby started to get her strength back those rose to lean against him. Illya murmured, pleased, when she rubbed herself against him, his erection between them. He slid slightly down, slipped himself between her legs, back up again and sank inside her. Gaby’s fingers grabbed his back, she made a sharp hiss and trembling moan, jerked under him. Illya couldn’t help the grunt that pushed its way out of him. He hung his head, set it against her shoulder and thrust again. Gaby was so slick and tight, he couldn't believe anybody felt like that.

They wrapped together, panting, neither one trying to hide how good it felt. Illya made love to her as well as he could, trying to push aside the need to come inside of her hot squeeze. Gaby’s thighs squeezed Illya so that his hip ached. It had just started to feel well again and he could walk properly, and now Gaby’s dancer’s thighs were pressing all new bruises on him. The hot pain radiated down his whole leg and spread across his back. And it felt so good, so real; the pain, her panting, her short nails burrowing into his neck. He held himself from coming until Gaby bent under him, roughly, and smothered her cries on his neck. Her fingers clawed his back so that he was sure he was bleeding. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and grunted against the damp skin. Illya tried to gather himself but when he failed he collapsed on the bed, half on top of her, Gaby’s arm wrapped over his neck, another on his back, legs tangled together.

They lay still until their breaths settled and hearts started to calm. Eventually Illya moved when he feared he would crush Gaby, pulled the duvet that flopped on the edge of the bed, mostly on the floor, on top of them and relaxed again.

Gaby looked at him, wondered should she say something. She didn’t think of anything so she made only a quiet hum and smiled.

Under the covers Illya’s fingers slowly stroked Gaby’s side. Very slowly down, lazy loop on her thigh, very slowly up. Gaby kept humming her pleased little hums and Illya’s lips curled into a soft smile.

“Was it like this the first time?” he asked. It didn’t feel that awkward to talk about it anymore. Not when Gaby lay naked against him, and the comforting warmth the orgasm had brought made everything easy.

Gaby smiled. She knew what to say, she had made a story in case he asked. “Pretty much,” she said softly.

Illya hummed quietly. “Tell me,” he asked.

Gaby took a better position against him. His hand slid down her back and stayed resting on top of her buttocks. “It was Friday. We went to dinner after work, like we do,” she told. “You brought me home and I asked you in. We talked on the couch. Then we kissed on the couch.”

Illya brushed her chin with his fingers as she talked.

“Lots of kissing,” Gaby whispered.

He stared at her moving lips and wanted to kiss her but didn’t want to interrupt her story. But Gaby reached up and kissed him.

“Your hands were under my shirt,” Gaby muttered when she pulled apart just enough to get the words of her mouth. Their lips brushed against each other with every syllable. “And under my skirt.”

Illya quickly licked his bottom lip. It felt weird to get turned on about something he had already done.

“It was late and you said you should leave,” Gaby continued, humming softly and gently nibbling his bottom lip. “But you didn’t leave,” she whispered and grinned slightly. “I was making it very difficult.”

“I believe that,” Illya muttered. His hands grabbed her buttocks firmly and he pulled her tightly against him, rolled himself slowly on his back and dragged her along on top of him. Gaby made a little pleased chirp. “When did I leave?” Illya asked and craned his head so he could kiss her neck.

“Sunday night,” Gaby said.

Illya sighed against her skin. He let his head rest against the pillow and looked at her. “I am sure those were very nice two days. Sad that I can not remember.”

“Well,” Gaby breathed slowly out and combed the hair from Illya’s forehead with her fingers, “that’s not very difficult to recreate,” she pointed out. “We can see Tuesday night are you still sad.”

Illya’s lips curled into his little smile and Gaby covered it with kisses. His hands wrapped around her, held her tightly against him, until relaxing again and smoothing over her, exploring and caressing.


	20. Driver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry so much what it going to happen. Just read all the fluff I'm offering and enjoy. I'm sure everything will turn out just fine, it's a Christmas story after all.

Gaby squinted at the grocery list. She had been concentrating on something completely different while she wrote it, and now she could barely read her own handwriting. And the last few things were written in Russian, those could mean anything. Illya walked to her and dropped a bunch of carrots in the cart. It was already late, the store was open only twenty more minutes, there were hardly any other customers. They were alone in the aisle in front of the canned food and Illya walked behind her, took a gentle hold of her hips and ducked down to kiss the skin below her ear. Gaby made a little sound and he kissed again.

“Stop,” Gaby muttered.

“No one can see,” Illya said and let his arms wrap around her.

“I don’t care if somebody sees,” Gaby informed. She pulled herself away from Illya, gave him tiny nudge with her hips, and turned to face him. “But if you are not ready to have sex against the canned beans right there,” she said, pointing at the shelf, holding her smile, “you can’t start that in here. It’s a miracle that we managed to get here at all. Try to control yourself.”

Illya’s lips twitched when she looked so smug and proper and yet grinned at him over her shoulder when she walked away. Illya pushed the cart to the next aisle, following her. She wore a knitted hat, her hair under it was still messy after two days in bed. It was the first time since Sunday that they were both properly clothed and out of the apartment.

Gaby sighed and handed the list to Illya. “I will get the milk,” she said. “You can find whatever those last things are.”

Illya glanced at the list when Gaby left. He had thought that he had been writing in English. But then Gaby had tried to find something to wear and he had been preoccupied because of that. He dropped things in the cart carelessly. When Gaby returned she pushed the milk in the cart under his arm and her own arm wrapped behind his back.

A woman with two teenaged girls with her walked past them, she glanced at them, had quick eye contact with Illya and in her face was the same soft expression Illya had seen before. The expression he hadn’t really gotten from anybody before Gaby. Small friendly gestures strangers gave each other when they found the other harmless. Illya was fully aware how strangers saw him; he was intimidating even when he didn’t want to be, he got only serious and tense glances from strangers in the grocery store or bank. And now one petite fiancée, arm wrapped across his back, declared to the world that he was completely harmless. He must have been, why else would she tilt her head up to gaze at him, looking so happy. He was automatically less intimidating with Gaby.

“I am happy that I had the accident,” Illya said as he leaned against the cart and glanced at Gaby over his shoulder. She leaned against the back of his shoulder, peeked at him right back, rubbed her nose on his coat.

“You are happy that you had amnesia?” Gaby asked nonplussed.

“No,” Illya said and frowned. Sometimes he forgot that had happened. It didn’t feel like he had forgotten so much when Gaby had patched all the blank spots with her stories. He had turned those into memories that felt very real even when they weren't technically his memories. “When I rear ended the truck,” he said. “Even when my car broke.”

Gaby hummed against his coat.

Illya pursed his lips when an idea he quite couldn’t catch bothered him. Something that didn’t make sense. “I… I use the subway,” he said.

“I know,” Gaby assured. “You like how it’s reliable and goes on time and everybody there are equals,” she said, a little pretentiously like she was imitating Illya, and smiled. “Very socialist of you. You are making your comrades proud.”

Illya looked at her under his brows. It was hard to stay annoyed when Gaby muffled her chuckles into his coat. She didn’t even try to hide it how bluntly she was mocking him and Illya still liked it. “That is not the point,” he said, straightening his back, and Gaby had to step away from him. Illya turned to look at her. “You do not really need car in London. The public transportation is very good,” Illya summed up and tilted his head. “But I did not hit the truck with a metro cart. I did it with a car.”

Gaby blinked her eyes when she realised it: Illya didn’t have a car.

“I do not have a car,” Illya said.

“You sold it,” Gaby said when it was the first logical thing popping in her mind. “Few months after I fixed it. Like you said: you didn't really need it.”

“Why did I ever buy a car?” Illya wondered.

Gaby shrugged. “I'm not sure. It was before me,” she sighed. “Was there laundry detergent in the list? Did we run out?” she asked, took the cart from Illya, pushed it along the aisle. She didn’t like the lies and didn’t want to tell any more than she already had.

“What kind of car I had?” Illya asked and followed her.

“Bristol 407,” Gaby said and thought about the car an angry lawyer had reversed against a traffic sign before she had started her christmas holiday. “Midnight blue sport saloon from 1961. Chrysler’s 5,130 cc V8 engine, torqueflite automatic gearbox; 3-speed automatic, maximum speed 125,2 miles per hour, acceleration from zero to sixty in 9,2 seconds, two exhaust pipes, coil springs suspension. Much better than the transverse leaf springs in 406. That was too inadequate to provide effective handling at the higher speeds that 407 is capable of,” she explained efficiently and stopped to take a breath. Illya looked at her silently. “And a black leather interior,” she added like a cherry on top of a sundae and caught her breath.

Illya stared at her and finally nodded slightly. “Okay,” he muttered. It was sort of turning him on when she talked about cars in such detail. He took a sugar package from the shelf, dropped it in the cart, moved Gaby gently aside and pushed it himself. “Was it a good car?”

“Reasonable,” Gaby said. “Nothing special. Too expensive for what it’s really worth. If you are thinking about getting a new one I can recommend a few.”

“I think I will manage without,” Illya suspected. “I like the subway.”

“And I have a car,” Gaby said, happy that the car issue had been sorted out. “You can imagine that you have your very own chauffeur.” Gaby reached to grab Illya’s cap from his head, pulled her own knitted hat off and put the cap on her head. “I can wear a hat if it makes it more authentic,” she offered.

The corners of Illya’s mouth twitched when they stopped in the dairy aisle. There were people standing near so he wasn’t comfortable enough to pull her close and kiss her. He didn’t say that she could use his cap whenever she wanted, it would probably make everything nicer. He didn't say that she should at least keep it on until they were back home and naked again.

“Store is closing soon,” Gaby remembered. “I’m going to get that detergent.”

Illya moved fast, faster than his brains that were still wondering was this the right place or time or even the feeling. His hand grabbed her wrist and Gaby stopped, looked at him a little displeased because the store was closing and he was keeping her still. And Illya knew at least the feeling was right even if everything else wasn’t. And everything else didn’t matter.

“I love you,” Illya said and ignored how new saying it felt. He had said it before, he knew, he just didn’t remember. It wasn’t really the first time. And still it felt like it.

Gaby brows rose from the surprise and she took a sharp gasp of air. Her mouth opened slightly and she closed it when she noticed it. “You do?” she asked, her heart racing in her chest.

“Yes,” Illya said. “It can’t be a surprise. I loved you before.”

Gaby hummed. “I guess so.”

Illya nodded sharply and let go of her wrist. “I go get the peas,” he said, seemed maybe even embarrassed that he had said what he had said in a grocery store.

Gaby turned around and left to get the detergent before the store closed. She turned to look at Illya over her shoulder when she walked away from him. So he loved her, just like that, like it was easy. Gaby couldn't say what she was feeling. But whatever it was there was lot of it and it made her heart race and brains run empty. She stopped and frowned. What she was even going to get? Milk?


	21. German

Napoleon leaned against the bookcases, his hands in his pockets. Gaby stood on top of a step stool on her tip toes and moved books on the top shelf aside. She coughed when dust flew in the already musty air. A very old and wrinkly man looked at them through his thick spectacles, sat behind the counter and seemed suspicious.

“Don’t drop the books,” he said with creaky voice.

“I won’t,” Gaby sighed. She coughed and tried to wave the dust away. “I have promised at least five times.”

The cranky old man returned to examine a big book on the counter but kept glaring at them under his almost white brows. 

“Do you have some sort of plan?” Napoleon asked. “For January? Or are you going to change to locks when he's away?”

“I can’t do that,” Gaby said, frowning at the books.

Napoleon nodded. “Maybe that would be quite harsh.”

“I’m going to let him end the relationship,” Gaby said. She had thought about it, but the execution was still hazy. “That way it will be his decision.”

“So you are going to act very annoyingly until he has enough,” Napoleon said, glanced up to see her and pursed his mouth while pondering her plan. “That could work. Not the fastest plan.”

“Well, yes,” Gaby sighed. “Except I’m not going act like anything. I’m going to be like I am and wait until he ends the relationship. Or there is some sort of natural exit.”

Napoleon looked at her, frowning and not quite sure was he understanding. “When you say natural exit, do you mean... death?”

Gaby nodded. She moved the books around and the old man behind the counter cleared his throat. “I’m not going to drop them,” she huffed over her shoulder.

Napoleon tilted his head inquisitively. “Are you saying that if Peril doesn’t get bored with you, your plan is to grow old with him?”

Gaby turned to look at Solo. “Yes,” she finally said like she was still pondering her plan. Solo looked at her, his brows lifted high, and Gaby sighed. “I didn’t say it was a perfect plan. So maybe it's not that quick, but it is solid. One of us is going to die eventually. That is inevitable.”

Napoleon stared at her, a little nonplussed, like he had noticed he sometimes did. “What are you going to do while you wait for death?” he wanted to know. “Marry him?”

“Well, we are engaged so that would be naturally the next step,” Gaby said and grabbed a book to see its title. “So probably yes. Maybe we will have children. I haven't really planned that far ahead. I should probably ask for his opinion. Maybe he doesn’t want children. Maybe we’ll get dogs.”

“Are you in love with him?” Napoleon asked.

“No,” Gaby stated, because she knew she couldn’t be. That was what she was supposed to say. “But it’s a sensible solution. He is intelligent and gifted, his finances are in good order. He’s very good to me and…” Gaby shrugged, “he is pleasing to look at,” she confessed. Solo grinned and she turned her eyes away from him. “It’s a reasonable plan,” she said determinately. “Marriage of convenience. I could do worse.”

Napoleon didn’t even know what to say. He prided himself at always knowing what to say but with Gaby it sometimes was so hard. She pulled out extraordinary weird solutions for her problems from thin air and then made it sound like it was not a big deal. So she would just marry the Russian, that sounded like a convenient plan, decision made. “Are you serious?” Napoleon still had to ask. “You are going to stay with him?”

“Yes,” Gaby said. She pushed books away to grab the few behind them. “Found it,” she gasped and started coughing when she inhaled the dusty air. Gaby leaned against the shelf so she didn’t fall down while she coughed.

“Don’t drop the books,” the old mad creaked.

“I haven’t drop a single one,” Gaby managed and cleared her throat. The book slipped from her hand and thumped against the floor.

The old man stood up slowly, leaned against the counter, looked at the book on the floor and then turned to scowl at Gaby through his thick spectacles.

“I’m going to buy that one,” Gaby said tightly. “So let it go.” She got herself back on the floor and bent to grab the book from the floor. She waved it in her hand. “Perfectly fine,” she pointed out. “It’s a book. You can’t break it by dropping it.”

Napoleon took the book from Gaby. “Записки из Мёртвого дома,” he glanced over the title. “Have you started reading Russian classics?”

“There is no need for smirking when you know perfectly well that it’s for Illya,” Gaby said and snatched the book back.

“I would've imagined that he already had that,” Napoleon said.

“No,” Gaby said. “Only the English translation, not the original. I think he just hasn’t found it yet. This was the third used bookstore I’ve searched in.”

“Quite a lot of effort for a fake fiancé,” Napoleon remarked.

“This is nothing,” Gaby said. “When I took part of his books to my place, I had to rearrange the whole bookcase again and put the books in alphabetical order. Because he would’ve done that if his book were there. Do you know how long it took?”

Napoleon grinned. “Of course his books are in alphabetical order,” he said and pushed himself clear from the bookcase.

“We are closing soon,” the old man creaked behind the counter and tapped slowly his wrist watch.

“You are closing in a hour,” Gaby pointed out, bored. “It says so on the door.” She shook her head, annoyed. “Let’s go before that crazy old coot calls the police because he is sure I’m trying to steal this,” she said and waved her Dostoyevsky. 

“Are you ever going to tell him that you only met three weeks ago?” Napoleon asked when Gaby set the book on the counter and took her wallet from her handbag.

“There is no reason for that,” Gaby said, and handed a note to the old man. He glared at the money, turned it around like he was examining it and expecting it to be a counterfeit. “He doesn't need to know. I think he is quite pleased with the situation as it is. I have told him what has happened and to him that is true. Soon I will forget that we didn't really meet at the garage after he rear ended a truck,” Gaby continued. “I don't want to leave him and hurt him unnecessarily. He has gone through enough bad things. I don’t want to cause any more.”

“Are you sure you are not in love with him?” Napoleon asked.

“I like him,” Gaby admitted. “And care about him. I want to see him content and satisfied and make sure nothing bad happens to him. I don’t want him to be lonely or sad. I want him to be happy. And if he is happy with me then I’m going to continue being with him. It has nothing to do with love.”

“I think it’s safe to assume that you have never been in love,” Napoleon suspected. “Otherwise you probably would recognize the feeling by now. Because all of this; you wanting him to be happy and pleased and not lonely and you keeping him forever and marrying him; that’s love.”

“It’s a marriage of convenience,” Gaby claimed. She took her change from the old man who seemed reluctant to give it to her, and dropped it in her pocket.

“I also don’t think you know what that means,” Napoleon suspected and looked down his nose at her when she said things that sounded ridiculous to his ears. “That sounds like regular marriage.”

“Well, that’s your opinion,” Gaby said and huffed slightly. “I can’t help how you feel about things.”

“I don’t really care for Germans,” the old man said sharply and scowled at Gaby.

“Wirklich?” Gaby muttered and took her book.

“Come on, German,” Napoleon said and guided Gaby out of the door. “Let’s find some place that sells some glühwein.”


	22. Yours

It was dark when Illya woke up. He rolled on his side, moved his arms onto Gaby’s side to pull her close to him. His hand touched the duvet but couldn’t find Gaby. His hand slipped under the duvet. The mattress was cool like she hadn't been in the bed for a while. Illya opened his eyes, rolled to grab the alarm clock. It was two am; not even early yet, still late. He got up, took his pajama pants from the floor and pulled them on.

Gaby was in the dark living-room, in the ugly orange armchair; knees against the seat, stomach and chest leaning onto the backrest, arms bent under her chin that was set on top of the backrest. She looked outside from the window behind the chair.

“What are you doing?” Illya asked and she winced.

“You scared me,” Gaby gasped.

“Sorry,” Illya muttered. He rubbed his eye with his palm. “You were not in bed.”

“I couldn't sleep,” Gaby said and shrugged her shoulders. “You go back in. There is no work tomorrow so I can sleep in.”

Illya hummed like he agreed with her but went into the kitchen. “I will make you something to eat,” he said and switched on the light above the stove.

Gaby turned to look at the warm light coming from the doorframe and frowned. She backed out from the armchair and followed Illya. She stopped in the middle of the floor, in her pajama shirt and underpants, looked him taking things from the refrigerator. “I’m not hungry,” Gaby said when she was sure Illya had misunderstood her.

“When I had nightmares as a child my father said it was because I was hungry,” Illya said and took a plate from the cupboard, lit the gas stove and set a frying pan over the blue flames. He took bread from the bread bin, poured milk on the plate, cracked open an egg, grabbed Gaby by her waist and lifted her to sit on the edge of the kitchen counter next to him like she was just one part of the preparations. “He said it was my body waking me up and reminding me to eat so I would grow big and strong.”

Gaby smiled while she looked at Illya’s doings. “I didn’t have nightmares,” she pointed out.

“And I did not have nightmares because I was hungry,” Illya said and put butter in the pan. “This is not science.” He soaked the thick slice of bread in the milk and egg, set it in the frying pan. The wet bread hissed when it hit the hot pan, the butter bubbled around it. “My father was very busy man and he did not have much time to spend with me. But he did make me something to eat if I had nightmares. It was nice.”

“To make sure you would grow big and strong?” Gaby said and admired Illya who stood in front of the stove without his shirt on. “He did a very good job with that,” she assured him.

Illya glanced at her from the corner of his eyes and smile curled his lips. “So, why you can not sleep?” he muttered while he turned the bread slice over and the golden brown side was turned on top.

Gaby inhaled the warm, buttery scent into her lungs. “Sometimes I just can’t. It’s been like that always. Nowadays it doesn’t happen that often, but it happens still.”

Illya nodded and took another plate from the cupboard, returned to the refrigerator to get the jam. He dropped a spoonful in the middle of the golden brown bread slice and handed the plate to Gaby. He took a fork for her from the drawer, nodded towards the plate. “Eat. So you can sleep.”

Illya’s silly method made Gaby smile when she cut a piece from her bread. “Did your father make French toast too?” she mumbled her mouth full.

“He fried baked potatoes in lard,” Illya said and Gaby snorted and covered her mouth. “It was good,” Illya assured. Gaby nodded and hummed in a way that didn’t convince Illya that she believed him. He moved in front of her, hip bones pressing against the edge of the counter, Gaby’s knees settling on both sides of him. He lifted his hand and wiped jam from the corner of her mouth with his thumb and pressed a kiss on the spot. She smiled and offered the next piece to him.

“Sorry I woke you,” Gaby said.

Illya shook his head to show he didn’t mind, his fingers smoothed her thighs.

Gaby chewed quiety and looked at the plate she was holding; brown butter stains, red jam, the last piece of the warm toast. She knew why she couldn't sleep. She was afraid. That had always been the reason for it. She had always slept badly and felt restless because of fear. First it had been the war, the planes flying over Berlin, the warning sirens and the bombs, the soldiers marching on the street; those were her earliest memories. Then she had been afraid of Stasi and the loss of her own freedom that was slipping from her fingers, a little more each day. Only in London, when everything had settled down, she had started to sleep better. But the restlessness always stayed with her.

And now suddenly there was Illya. It was so easy to curl next to him at night, stay near him. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Gaby felt safe. Illya brought with him calmness she hadn’t even dreamed of because she didn’t know that it existed. She had always assumed that the fear and restlessness she felt were normal and would always be there.

At Savoy Alexander had said that she needed somebody who would cause havoc with her. And that really showed how little he knew her and how wrong his perception of Gaby was. That was the reason she hadn’t stayed in Rome warming his bed. Gaby didn’t want that, she didn’t want havoc. She wanted peace. She wanted to sleep her nights well and not be afraid. She didn’t want to pretend to be stronger than she was. She just wanted to be safe. And even when there was really nothing to be afraid of, Illya still brought that safety. He made her French toast when she couldn’t sleep. He let her warm her toes under his thigh on the couch. He help her change the light bulbs, took the trash out, and didn’t mind when she talked on and on about disc brakes at the dinner table. And he loved her.

Gaby swallowed the last bites and Illya took the plate from her. He reached toward the sink and set it there. His hand moved again near her face, fingers gently lifting her chin, making her look at him. “Are you okay?”

Gaby nodded, which was a lie, and swallowed even when there was nothing to swallow anymore. Now she was afraid that she would lose Illya. That he would remember he wasn’t hers and disappear from her life.

Illya let his fingers trace her jawline; he leaned closed to kiss her. Gaby wrapped her arms around his neck. His hands slowly smoothed down her sides, settled on her hips, and pulled her closer to him. Right on the edge of the counter so that his hips burrowed right between her thighs. Gaby made a soft whimper and pulled slightly apart from their kiss.

“Ich liebe dich,” she whispered and her lips brushed Illya’s lips. She had deliberately not been saying that before. It had been too big a lie to say out loud. But now it didn’t feel like a lie anymore. It was something she felt. Like she felt Illya’s body against herself or the taste of the jam in their kiss. “Du machst mich glücklich,” she muttered almost against him because she didn’t want to let him go any further.

Illya didn’t feel like somebody she had known only for few weeks. Her lies had started to turn into memories even in her own mind and he was familiar and so dear. He felt right and good and his kiss was warm and a little lazy and she wanted him so much. And when their buttery, raspberry flavoured kiss deepened she could feel that he wanted her too. She rocked her hips to make her want very clear even when his hands were already slipping under the edge of her shirt, touching her skin, curling under the waistband of her underpants.

Illya pulled her pants down her hips and knees and let them drop off on their own the rest of the way. He pushed his pajama pants down and settled back between her thighs. Her kisses were wet and slow, and sweet from the jam.

“Ich liebe dich auch,” he muttered against her lips, knew he was making her happy by speaking her native language. With Gaby he felt acceptance. He knew there would be days when it probably would be hard to love him. But he also knew that Gaby would keep caring for him through those days. She was strong, pretended to be even stronger, and made him feel that he was worthy of her love.

Gaby made a little moan when he slowly slid inside her, louder when he pushed himself all the way in. His hand kept their hold on her hips, he rubbed himself inside of her, like he was trying to get even deeper, made sure he was as close to her as he physically could be. His kiss muffled most of her delicious noises. He broke away from their kiss so he could see her face; her parted lips and half closed eyes.

“You are the best thing that has ever been mine,” Illya said quietly. “And I know you are your own, but -”

“I’m yours,” Gaby breathed out hastily, interrupting him. “All yours,” she said, out of breath from all the things Illya was doing. She pulled his face back for her to kiss. She couldn’t look at him, there was so much emotion that she feared she would cry if he kept looking at her so gently and sincerely.

Illya’s lips moved aside from her lips, kissed slowly underneath her ear, traveled down to her neck. He let himself slide almost out of her and back in, in one long thrust. Gaby gasped from the pleasure it brought. She closed her eyes and wiped everything else from her mind. She wanted to be only in this moment; the sweet raspberry taste lingering on her tongue, the buttery scent still in the kitchen, Illya’s kisses on her neck, he making love to her against the counter, and her own fingers clenching on his back, trying to grab something to hold on when her body arched from how good it all felt.


	23. Liar

Illya rubbed his forehead.

“Do you want aspirin?” Gaby asked.

“This is fine,” Illya said. His head had been aching all day, since he woke. Of course Gaby noticed it. 

Gaby hummed like she didn’t believe him and got up from the couch. She got the medicine from the bathroom and a glass of water from kitchen. “You have been frowning all day. Have you taken any painkillers?” she wanted to know.

“Yes,” Illya sighed. “Morning.”

“It’s almost five now,” Gaby said and handed two tablets and the glass to him. “Maybe time to take some more.”

“I can decide when to take medicine myself,” Illya pointed out. “You do not have to take care of me.”

“Of course you can,” she agreed and looked him sternly until he took the pills. “I’m still going to,” she said and Illya glanced at her. “Who else am I supposed to take care of?” she asked and hummed as an emphasis.

Illya couldn’t really be sorry for something like that. Gaby climbed over the back of the couch and slid to sit on his lap, pushed him snugly in the corner of the sofa cushions and kissed his forehead.

“Or is this so horrible?” she asked and kissed his temple and then his cheek.

“No,” Illya admitted. Gaby kissed his neck and hummed against it, traced his jawline with her kisses and finally captured his lips. Illya took better hold of her, enjoyed her warm weight on him. Her lips curled into a smile against his lips. It didn’t take the pain away, but it made it feel less bad while the medicine started to work. Gaby’s warm hand slipped behind his neck and his body started to react to all the closeness. He was sure Gaby could feel it; her kisses turned deeper. Illya remembered the car just before it hit him.

His lips stopped moving and he pulled away from her.

Gaby hummed. “Is this making it worse?” she asked and craned her head to kiss his temple again. “Do you want to go out for a Friday dinner even when we weren’t at work today?”

Illya turned to look at Gaby. She looked back with her brown eyes, a little smile on the corner of her lips, fingers touching his nape. He examined at her face like he had in the hospital. Now he knew her face; her smile, eyes, scent, everything. But it was all still new, three weeks old. There was no memories of her before that.

“Are you okay?” Gaby asked

Illya frowned when he tried to clear out the mess in his head. It was still hurting and all the memories Gaby had told him and that he had weaved together like a real life started to rip apart. Those were pushed aside when real memories took their places. He had worked, he had been annoyed with Cowboy. He had gone out a few times with a secretary from the solicitor's office in the same building as their office. He had eaten alone and went bed alone. He hadn’t rear ended a truck, proposed, not even said he loved anybody. Not ever, not before he had said it just few days earlier in the dairy aisle.

“Who are you?” Illya asked, uncertain what was happening.

The gentle smile from Gaby’s lips disappeared. A sharp pressure squeezed her chest when she realised that Illya could remember. He knew she was a liar and his eyes were already looking at her much less gently than usually; his body had tensed up under her.

“Illya,” Gaby sighed.

Illya lowered his eyes from hers. He moved her away from him and pulled himself to up from the couch. Gaby staggered when she got quickly up. Illya turned his back to her, rubbed his forehead, tried to make sense of it all. Gaby couldn’t be anybody new, his brains were just confused when all the memories rushed back. He had to have known her longer than three weeks. He combed through the days and weeks and desperately searched for her, even some tiny thing that would tell that she had been there. But she hadn’t. There wasn't any Friday pub dinner tradition, he had never known her favorite flowers. There was no Gaby.

He turned back to look at her. She looked nervous, like she should look after having just been caught for three weeks of lies and fake memories she had filled his head with.

“Who are you?” Illya asked again.

“Gaby,” she said. “I’m Gaby. You know me.”

“You are not my fiancée,” Illya said. “We met at the hospital.”

Gaby swallowed even though her mouth was dry and it only made her feel like she was choking. She knew everything would come out, maybe it was easier to tell herself. “Earlier,” she confessed. “You stepped in the alley from behind the dumpsters. It was sudden. I couldn’t get the car stopped in time. I hit you.”

Illya stared at her and couldn't believe what she was saying.

“I came to the hospital with you and said that I was your fiancée so they would keep telling me how you were doing,” Gaby told. Her gaze wandered when she couldn’t dare to look Illya in the eyes.

Illya shook his head. “Why you didn’t tell me it was a lie?”

“I… I…” Gaby stammered when she searched the words to explain everything. “You had amnesia. It felt like a big enough thing as it was and I didn’t want to start to explain that I was… the nurse introduced me and I didn’t… I…”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Illya grunted.

Gaby took a trembling inhale. Her lips parted to explain. It was easy; she would tell him that Solo had blackmailed her, she didn’t have a choice, she had to lie. But the words and the explanation didn’t come out. Gaby couldn't say that. She could see how angry Illya was even when he clearly was trying to control it. He looked like a cornered animal, frantic and confused, fingers tapping his thigh. Gaby knew how few he had people in his life. He had Gaby, at least he used to have, and he had Solo. They maybe weren’t even friends but he was still there so Illya wouldn’t be completely alone. And Gaby could already see how Illya was letting go of her and they started to drift apart. If she would now tell that Solo had been involved he would be left alone, and she didn’t want that. 

So she closed her mouth, kept the secret and took the blame alone. She hadn't anticipated how much it would hurt when Illya stared at her looking so angry. Gaby had gotten used to him looking at her always so soft. She had gotten used to his gentleness and now he was only cold and so stern.

“I didn't want to confess that it was me who hit you with my car,” Gaby muttered, “So I continued pretending.”

“But you…” Illya sighed and didn’t even know what to say. His breathing was fast and shallow. “How do you know so much about me? How could you know all that? Where I studied, where I was treated as a child?” Illya demanded. “How could you know when I didn’t tell you?”

Gaby lifted her chin, prepared like she was going to battle. “You gave me your keys so I could get your book,” she said. “And I - “

“You went through my apartment,” Illya finished her sentence. “Of course you did. Must have been fun to find out all my personal business,” he huffed, deliberately mean even when he had done the same thing.

“I needed to know about you,” Gaby said quietly. “It was the best way. I’m sorry.”

Illya backed away few steps, turned, paced the floor, rubbed his aching head. He was going to sit back down but it wasn’t his couch, not his home, not even his fiancée.

“I know this seems bad,” Gaby assured him and went close. Carefully she set her hand to touch his arm.

Illya stepped away from her touch. “Bad does not even start to describe this,” he muttered callously. He started moving again, went to the door, pulled his shoes on, grabbed his coat. He walked to the bedroom to pack his things, but then decided he didn’t want to stay any longer, not even to take his things. He marched back to the door and out of it.

“Illya,” Gaby tried. “Let me explain.” Her voice was trembling when she followed him to the dark corridor and the stairs down.

“What there is to explain?” Illya huffed and pushed the front door open.

“Please don’t go,” Gaby pleaded when she hurried after him, ran down the stone steps to the sidewalk. “I love you, I meant that,” she tried, hoping he would stay. “I’m sorry!” She stopped on the street. The ground was wet and freezing cold under her bare feet. The brisk wind made her shiver in her short sleeved shirt, mussed her bangs. Illya marched along the street, farther and farther away from her and Gaby felt like she had lost him. She could run after him, but she knew it was pointless; he was too mad and didn’t want to listen. And she was barefooted. So she let Illya walk away from her life, held back her tears on the street. 

People walking past her were glancing at her feet and shivering arms but Gaby didn’t care. They could stare as much as they pleased. She kept staring at Illya as long as she could see him. She let her toes freeze, wrapped her hands to cover her arms and stood still until Illya finally disappeared completely. She pressed her mouth in a tight line and swallowed back her tears. Now Gaby was happy there was no snow. White ground would’ve made it all feel like Christmas. The black street under her freezing feet was what she deserved.

Shaking from the cold, she finally went back in. The door was wide open, like it had stayed when Illya had stormed out and she had followed him. Gaby went to the bathroom, yanked the hand towel off its hook, set her feet on the edge of the tub and dried them. Both feet were red from the cold. She dropped the towel on the floor and went to the kitchen, grabbed the vodka from the freezer compartment and poured herself a drink with her shaking hands. She spilled, didn’t care, and gulped her drink down. The freezing alcohol burned her throat and she poured another one. She gulped the drink down and the glass slipped from her trembling hand, shattered on the sink bottom.

There were still dribbles of jam in sink from the night before last when everything was still good. When Illya had made her French toast and she had told him that she loved him. When Illya had loved her back and carried her to the bed after making love to her in the kitchen. She had fallen right back to sleep.

Today there were shards in the sink, Illya hated her and he had left. Gaby reached to grab another glass. She wanted to drink more, she wanted to drink until her heart stopped aching, and right now it felt like that would never stop, so badly it hurt. Her hands trembled and she couldn’t get hold of the glass; she slumped down on the kitchen floor and burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember yesterday's chapter? Do you remember how sweet that was? Yeah, that's over now, we all knew this was coming. They were so happy and now it's all over. They will never meet again and the last chapters are just sad angst, crying and self-hatred. Merry Christmas...
> 
> or maybe not, we'll see


	24. Accomplice

Illya sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He squeezed the telephone in his hand. “Send a messenger to bring them in,” he repeated slowly, barely containing the anger that was already making his voice shake. He listened to the answer and squeezed the phone so hard that the plastic cracked under his grip. “There must be somebody,” he grunted. “I do not care that it is Christmas eve. You are still there. Send somebody to bring the papers,” he demanded.

The answers from the other end continued being very unsure. “Never mind,” he snapped, grabbed the whole phone from the table and threw it against the wall. It crashed loudly against it, ripped the wire from the socket, hit the floor with a sound that indicated it wouldn’t be working again. He grunted, frustrated, raked his fingers through his hair, flipped the coffee table aside violently and stopped to catch his breath, trying to calm himself down.

The office was closed. He could’ve worked but all the papers were there. He crashed down on the couch. It was his own fault. He should’ve realized that everything was one big lie. Illya couldn’t understand how he had been stupid enough to think that he had magically landed in an easy and cozy life with a beautiful ballerina who made him smile. It sounded obscure now when he thought about it; he should've seen it from the start.

The sun had already set when somebody knocked on his door. Illya frowned, annoyed, when somebody dared to interrupt his self hatred. He turned the coffee table back up but left things scattered on the floor as they were. He scowled at Cowboy when he opened the door.

“You made Marge cry,” he said and looked at him, judging. “When you called. I bought her a bottle of sweet sherry and said it was from you. She left to celebrate Christmas feeling better.”

Illya huffed. He felt guilty for making the receptionist cry even though the woman was useless. “I said from the beginning that she was not very good. I was right. What are you doing here?”

Napoleon handed over a pile of folders. “You wanted all the Fulham papers. There weren't any messengers available. It’s Christmas, if you haven’t noticed,” he remarked. “But I brought them, you are welcome,” he sighed very smugly and pushed his way into the apartment past Peril even when he grunted at him, clearly annoyed, and ignored Peril’s reluctance like he usually did. Napoleon walked into the living room. “It is just like I imagined. Very spartan.”

Illya frowned. “Some of my things… they are somewhere else.”

“Why are you staying here?” Napoleon asked. He pointed at the papers and pens and the shattered mug that had scattered over the floor when the coffee table had been flipped over. “Did you come to do Christmas cleaning?” he smirked and turned quickly on his heels. “Wait, you remember Marge?”

“Yes,” Illya said and closed the door when Cowboy clearly wasn't leaving immediately.

Napoleon hummed and looked little uneasy. “So I guess you know that -”

“I do not want to talk about her,” Illya interrupted him sharply. “Why did you not tell me she was not my fiancée?” he snapped right away. “You interrogated me about my affairs few days before the accident. You knew I did not have anybody.”

Napoleon pursed his mouth.

“Or was it funny to you?” Illya asked. “Watch me making a fool out of myself?”

“Did you?” Napoleon asked. “Didn’t seem like it. You looked quite hap -”

“Leave it,” Illya interrupted. “You should have told me.”

Napoleon frowned in confusion. “Is this the only reason you are mad at me?” he asked, nonplussed.

“Probably not,” Illya huffed. “But I can not think of anything else right now.”

“Interesting,” Napoleon muttered and nodded. “I need somebody like Gaby to work with me. Somebody I can just throw in any situation and she blends in like a chameleon. Somebody who won’t drag the whole operation down if she gets caught. Can I borrow her?”

“She is not mine to loan,” Illya managed between his gritted teeth and threw the folders on the coffee table. “I have no dealings with her anymore.”

Napoleon made a little mocking chuckle and Illya scowled at him. “Other than you are in love with her and she is with you. But I understand; no dealings, none whatsoever.”

“She lied for weeks that she was my fiancée,” Illya grunted. “And she doesn't have even an explanation why. Only that she did not want to tell the truth. She went through my apartment to find out about me. She staged her own apartment with my things. Like I have been living there.”

Napoleon nodded. “You don’t have to talk her up to me. I already said that she is very good.”

“Not the point,” Illya hissed. “She had no other reason than that she just didn’t want to say she was the one hitting me with her car. And that does sound like an accident, so no reason at all.”

“So she told you everything,” Napoleon sighed and felt guilty that Gaby had taken all the blame and left him out of it. He couldn’t understand why. “I can’t let her sink on her own,” he muttered, unhappy that he was feeling like that. “She only pretended to be your fiancée because I asked her to do so.”

“What?” Illya asked.

“Or asked and asked. Maybe blackmailed is the right word to use here,” Napoleon considered. He peeked at Peril under his brows. “I told her that I would tell the police she was the one who hit you with her car and lied about the description if she didn’t pretend to be your fiancée for rest of the year.”

Illya stared at Cowboy, his eyes wide, an almost horrified look on his face. “Why would you do that?” he finally grunted. “Was this some experiment of yours? Do you even know what she did with me? And only because you blackmailed her.”

“I took all physical contact away from that deal,” Napoleon said quickly. “Or she did and I thought it was reasonable. It was also her choice to say you two were basically living together. Although that was just her not thinking things through. But all touching was her own choice. If you had sex, which I suspect you did, it was because she wanted to do that, not because she was in any way obligated. She had free will. Strong one of those,” Napoleon explained. “I like her,” he carried on and nodded towards Illya. “And I know you like her too. And the weirdest thing is that she likes you back.”

Illya huffed when he couldn’t decide what he felt.

“And as for the _why_ I did it, I thought it was obvious. You are a sad and lonely person. I thought you would like that. And you did.”

Illya scowled at him. “It wasn’t true.”

“Maybe not the whole history, but these weeks were,” Napoleon said. “So she lied about some things. So what? You were happy with her. Anybody could see it.” He considered whether things went too far after all. It’s not like he had intended anybody to get their feelings hurt. Mostly because he had been sure that Illya would get his memory back sooner and he most certainly hadn’t expected that they would actually fall in love with each other.

“I’m sorry.” The words slipped from his mouth before he managed to stop them. He frowned and wondered did he really mean it. The idea that he actually did troubled him. First and foremost he had tried to make life easier for himself. He had suspected that working with Illya would be easier if he wasn’t so determinedly miserable all the time. It was like he had decided that his life would always be somewhat lonely and joyless and then he did everything to insure that it would stay like that.

Napoleon would have said that Illya was scared to have something good in his life, in case he lost it, if he wasn’t sure that he would break his jaw in a single punch. And Napoleon liked his jaw as it was. But he had to give credit to Illya, he had been right; he had gotten something that had made him happy, and then lost it. Now it made Napoleon feel bad and he was annoyed that he felt like that.

Illya marched to the door and yanked it open so hard Napoleon was sure it would come right off the frame. “Leave before I throw you out.”

Napoleon went to the door. “Do you know what her plan to end your relationship was?”

“I do not care,” Illya said between his teeth, spitting the words out even as he wanted to know how she was going to break his heart.

“She was going to be with you until one of you dies of old age,” Napoleon revealed.

“Get out,” Illya ordered. He swallowed and turned his head away. He didn’t need Solo to see how he felt.

“Sometimes you shouldn't care how you have ended up somewhere if you like being in there,” Napoleon said.

Illya pushed him over the threshold and slammed the door shut. He slumped back on the couch and sulked when he couldn't figure out what else to do. He was angry and sad and it made him even more miserable to realise that he was missing Gaby. He rubbed his face and hated everything. Illya knew the best thing was to start working. He could catch up during the holidays. He should get up from the couch, eat something, work, and definitely stop thinking about Gaby.

But his head was full of her. How she sat across the table at Friday dinner, smiled because of something he had said. How she sometimes during some long explanation switched to German and Illya had to point it out when she didn’t notice. Or how her hands grabbed him when she came, that trembling inhale she did. How she kissed his neck and wore his cap and nothing else and closed the refrigerator door by nudging it with her hip and painted her toenails on the bathroom floor, looking so intense, her pink tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth, and all the other stupid little things she did.

He wanted to hate her and it would be so easy to do so if the love he felt disappeared. But it was wrapped around his heart like the veins that pumped his blood, stayed there, ached and reminded him of her.

So Illya didn’t get up. He stayed as he was, stared at the ceiling, was miserable, and felt like he may have been paralyzed. He wanted to sleep but couldn’t.

Illya still wasn’t sure what to do when he finally got up. He went to use the bathroom, walked into the kitchen, ate baked beans straight from the tin because he couldn’t bother to do anything with them. He threw the empty tin in the trash, pulled his coat and cap on and left. He took the subway and walked rest of the way. At her door he hesitated, wondered if it would be better to return to his apartment and his life; it had been a good life before. He huffed and left, stopped at the stone stoop outside of her building.

But it hadn't been that good of a life. It was only easier to go back to that than to deal with this new one. Illya turned around, stared at the front door, frozen still. He had no idea what to do. He stood in the glow of the Christmas lights coming from the windows above and couldn’t decide should he stay or go.

He closed his eyes to gather himself and go through all the pros and cons. But he couldn't concentrate either when all he saw behind his closed eyelids was Gaby. The dim light on the nightstand glowing on her naked skin. Her fingers slowly drawing spirals on his chest. Her soft lips pressing kisses on his collarbones. Her whispers and softly spoken little secrets under the covers. Her face she had tilted up, her cheek resting on his shoulder, looking at him, her brown eyes full of warmth and promises of a good life.

Illya opened his eyes. His heart was racing and he was out of breath and couldn’t say why. Slowly he lifted his hand to the door handle and opened the front door. He climbed the stairs up, took his keys and opened the door.

The apartment was dark. He hung his coat on the coatrack, kicked his shoes quietly away. He didn’t switch the lights on, only grabbed a blanket from the backrest of the orange, flower patterned armchair. They would get rid of that chair. It was ugly and not even that comfortable. They would throw it out. He would bring the square armchair from his apartment to replace it. He liked that chair, the rest of his furniture he could sell. It was ridiculous to keep paying rent for two apartments. Financially it would probably be wisest to buy a place. Some old building with high ceilings; it would be shame if Gaby couldn't be annoyed by that when light bulbs burned out. He lowered himself down onto the couch.

The living room light flickered on and Gaby walked next to the couch. “Illya. What are you doing?” she asked, sounding confused and cautious, like she feared he would leave if she made any sudden movements or let out any sharp noises.

“Sleeping,” Illya said and bent his legs on the couch.

“On the couch?”, she asked. “You can come to bed,” Gaby suggested carefully.

“No, thank you,” Illya said firmly.

“You won’t fit there,” Gaby pointed out.

“Well, I am not coming to the bed,” Illya huffed. “So leave it.”

“Why did you came back if you are just moping here?” Gaby asked and started to be clearly annoyed. “You came to sleep on a couch you can’t fit?”

“Yes,” Illya hissed between his teeth.

Gaby huffed. “I don’t care where you sleep. Go outside on the stoop. Maybe that’s comfortable,” she suggested angrily, slammed the light switch so hard that it hurt her hand, and marched back to the bedroom.

Illya positioned himself as well as he could on the short couch and stared at the ceiling like he had done in his own apartment a little while ago. The only difference was that here his eyelids started to get heavy, unlike there. That apartment had felt like a waiting room for something he didn’t know he was waiting for. This apartment felt like home.


	25. Girlfriend

Illya woke, moved himself and realised it had been a mistake to sleep on the couch. He got up to sit and bent side to side, tried to stretch out his back. It was still early and instead of making breakfast he wanted to lie down somewhere he could fit. He went to the bedroom, stood by the door, and looked at Gaby. She slept on her side, one of her hands resting on his pillow. The curtains were closed and the room was still dark. He hesitated for a moment but then climbed in the bed, lay down, rolled against her, and wrapped his arm over her. She smelled nice and familiar, mumbled something when she woke.

“The couch is very bad to sleep on,” Illya muttered quietly.

“You wanted to stay,” Gaby mumbled so softly that Illya barely heard her. Her voice was mostly muffled by her pillow. The hand she had rested on his pillow had been trapped between the bed and his neck. Now she slowly moved her fingers and gently stroked the crook of his neck.

“I was angry,” Illya said.

“Are you still angry?” Gaby asked quietly.

“I… I don’t know. Yes, maybe.” He couldn’t decide.

Gaby could accept that. It didn’t feel that bad now when he was in the bed and his arm was keeping her close to him. She kept stroking his neck. “Does this help? she whispered.

“It does not make it worse,” Illya said when he didn’t want to directly admit that it was helping. It felt good, like all her touches. His own fingers moved on her side. He had been away maybe thirty hours and it felt like weeks. He had missed her. Her warmth and touch. Her kisses on his lips. “Why you didn't tell that Cowboy blackmailed you to lie to me?” he asked quietly.

Gaby moved carefully further away so she could see him. “Would it have made any difference? I don’t think so. You were still going to leave. And you didn’t have anybody else,” she muttered. “I didn’t want you to be left alone.”

Illya hummed and didn’t know what to say. Her caring even in that situation was still odd even when he felt like he had gotten used to all the things their relationship had brought to his life.

“I’m sorry,” Gaby said. “I didn’t want to lie. But then…” she sighed, “then it became a way to keep you with me. So I didn’t care.”

“What if I had never remembered?” Illya asked.

“Eventually I was going to forget that we didn’t meet like I said we did. The lies would’ve turn into memories and it would’ve been true,” Gaby said. “Sounds probably stupid, but that was what I was going to do. Just not to tell you. Keep you.”

“Have you changed your mind?” Illya asked, frowning.

“No,” Gaby assured quickly. “But I thought that you wouldn’t… that you wouldn’t want to be here anymore. With me.”

Illya sighed and looked at his own hand on her side, at the thumb that was stroking her pajama shirt slowly. But he wanted. Deep down he was still angry and bothered by it, but that would pass and he wanted to be with her.

“Why did you come back?” Gaby asked.

“I love you,” Illya muttered.

Gaby pressed her lips tightly together so that she wouldn’t start to cry when her chin trembled.

“I thought it would go away,” Illya confessed. “The love. Immediately when I was angry. And it did not. Apparently it does not go away that easily.”

Gaby took a sharp breath of air. “I know I lied, but never something I did, I meant every kiss and I wanted you so much. I didn’t lie about my feelings, I didn’t say I loved you because it was too big a thing to lie about and -”

“But you did,” Illya reminded and looked at her. “Few days ago. In the kitchen.”

“I meant it then,” Gaby promised. She lifted her hand to touch his chin and feel the coarse stubble. “Because I do.” She let her palm press onto his cheek, opened her fingers to touch as wide as she could. “Are you going to stay?” she asked and hated that her voice sounded so desperate and unsure.

“Yes,” Illya said, and was sure about his decision. “If you want.”

Gaby moved closer to him, kissed him hard. It was sweet and desperate like that had been the only thing she had wanted to do ever since Illya had come back. Her arms wrapped on his neck and kept him tightly in his place like she feared he would change his mind and it was pivotal for her to keep him still. Her touch was more firm than gentle.

Illya hated to admit that Solo had been right; he shouldn’t care that much how he had ended up somewhere if he liked being there. He had also thought like that on first night at her place. And he liked being with Gaby. In her tight hug, under her kisses, in her bed and life. In _their_ bed and _their_ life. He wanted to be there and it really didn’t matter how he had ended up there, he was just happy he had.

When Gaby’s frantic kiss slowed down and turned into soft pecks and tender brushes, Illya moved his head so he could see her in the dim room. He let his hand pull away from around her to touch her face, slide his thumb over her bottom lip, brush her bangs from her temple, feel her warm cheek.

“So are you now my fiancée?” Illya asked when he wasn’t sure what they were.

“We are not really engaged,” Gaby reminded. “Girlfriend.”

Illya hummed, his forehead frowned. “That feels like a step back.”

“Well, that’s the truth,” Gaby said. “For everything else you need to buy a ring and go down on one knee.”

“Fine,” Illya muttered.

Gaby snuggled closer to him, hummed quietly and rubbed her face on his neck. His hand stroked her slowly from everywhere. Gaby didn’t know what time it was and should they already get up. But it didn’t really matter. There was food that should be prepared and presents to open, but she only wanted to stay in bed, lying against Illya. And he didn’t seem like he had rush to anywhere either.

His hand brushed lazily down her pajama shirt, stopped when his fingers started opening her buttons. Slowly, one by one. He glanced at Gaby who was watching his doings, a little smile curling the corner of her mouth. He pushed the edges of her half-opened pajama shirt further apart and lowered his face close to her.

Illya’s lips and nose pressed against her sternum, Gaby’s fingers sank into his hair, her chest heaved with her heavy breathing. She closed her eyes and felt like a thousand pounds of weight had been lifted from her now when she realised she could keep him.

It started snowing outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all having peaceful holidays! All your lovely comments have been the best Christmas present, thank you so much for those <3
> 
> The last chapter is coming on the 31st.


	26. Fiancé

Gaby looked around, leaned against a desk more than sat on it, in her little orange mod dress Illya had picked for her and which made her feel very pretty. “Do all of these people work with you?” she asked when Illya returned and handed her a glass of champagne. It was cold and dry and the bubbles in it tickled her nose.

He sat on the edge of the desk next to her and gazed around the office space. “He does,” Illya said and pointed a man standing near the drink table, and sipped from his own glass.

“You would think that there would be more people you work with in your office’s party,” Gaby pointed out.

Illya hummed. “Cowboy probably invited mostly his friends. Most likely he offered to arrange the party so he could move his own party here and people would not mess up his apartment.”

“Well, it’s a very fancy apartment,” Gaby agreed.

Illya turned to look at her. “Have you been in his apartment?” he wanted to know. “Why?”

“Begging,” Gaby said. “Telling how hard it is to pretend to be somebody’s fiancée. Drinking his expensive cognac. Wrapping your Christmas gift. Forging an electricity bill.”

Illya’s lips twitched first, then he got serious. “Why were you forging a electricity bill? My bill?”

“You would have wondered why it was the same size as usual when you supposedly were spending all your time in my apartment,” Gaby explained. “So we needed to change it to a smaller amount.”

“How did you got the bill in the first place?” Illya asked.

“Well…” Gaby breathed out and pursed her lips, looked apologetic. Her head tilted and her big white earrings swung along when she moved.

“Let me guess,” Illya said and didn’t gave her the chance to finish. “You made a copy of my key when you had it.”

“Only in case I needed it again,” Gaby assured. “And I did.”

Illya shook his head slightly. Gaby nudged him gently with her hip and slid right next to his side. “If you change it, does this mean that I have not paid my electricity bill fully?” Illya asked. “Are they going to cut off the power?”

“It’s paid,” Gaby promised. “You paid a small fraction of it and Solo the rest.”

“Why would he pay it?” Illya wondered.

Gaby smiled and made quiet chuckle. “I don’t understand why you two keep claiming that you aren’t friends. You even ask the same questions. Of course he would pay the bill. He was the one blackmailing me, he would be the one taking care of the expenses. And you have seen his apartment, it’s a very fancy apartment. Trust me, he can afford to pay other people’s bills every day.”

Illya moved his hand to take hold of the desk behind Gaby. He didn't need any extra support, he just wanted to set his hand right next to her, let his fingers brush the small of her back, feel her warmth. Gaby glanced at him as she sipped her golden drink, looked very pleased. “No,” Illya said then. “I have not seen his apartment. But I imagine it is like a miniature version of Versailles.”

“More modern,” Gaby estimated, fairly for someone who had never visited Versailles, and tilted her head. “But it has probably the same amount of leaf gold on the ceiling moldings.”

Illya smiled; he couldn’t help it. It was hard not to smile at the things she said or did, or only because he saw her face. Illya was pretty sure he liked her more than he had liked her the day before and he had liked her a decent amount even then. He couldn’t understand how it was possible to like somebody a little more each day. At some point it had to stop, he assumed. Nobody could like somebody more and more each day forever.

Napoleon walked to them and stopped to lean on the other side of Gaby. “You see that man?” he asked, pointed stealthily across the room. “Brown suit, brown hair, looks little scared.”

“Yes,” Gaby said.

“He has a very exquisite collection of 17th century Dutch art. And I have a client who is very interested in one van Ruisdael he has in his collection,” Napoleon explained. “Problem is that Mr. Brown there isn’t willing to sell.”

“Is his name Brown or are you calling him that because of the suit and hair?” Illya asked.

“Because of the suit and hair,” Napoleon said. “The less you know the better.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Gaby wondered.

“I will get to that shortly,” Napoleon promised. “Now, in his estate he has a very top of the line security system,” he continued. “What I need is somebody who can -”

“No,” Illya interrupted. He twisted his torso to the side, took a hold on Gaby’s shoulder and pulled her closer to him. He lifted his index finger just to make a point. “I do not know what you need, but you are not pulling Gaby in it.”

“Let the woman decide for herself,” Napoleon said and gestured towards her. “She may find my suggestion appealing.”

“She will not,” Illya assured and kept his hold on her.

“ _She_ is right here,” Gaby pointed out, starting to sound irritated.

“You can find someone else,” Illya said. “She is my fiancée, there will be no mixing her in any of your schemes.”

Napoleon sighed. “Fiancée, really, still?” He shook his head and let his gaze travel along Gaby’s bare arm, taking her left hand on his own. “You are even wearing your ring. Why are you still wearing your ring?” Napoleon asked. “You are not really engaged.”

Gaby took her hand back, glanced at her ring and then Illya and cleared her throat. “It’s not the same ring. It felt like a step back to be boyfriend and girlfriend after an engagement. So… we got engaged.”

Napoleon turned to Peril, who shrugged and move his head looking a little uncomfortable when somebody had noticed. Yet he didn’t let go of Gaby’s arm, but kept holding her near now when he had almost an excuse for it. His thumb stroked her shoulder slowly.

“You got engaged,” Napoleon repeated. “Of course you did,” he sighed. “Is the wedding next week?”

Gaby snorted. “Of course not. We only met a month ago.”

“And yet you are already engaged,” Napoleon pointed out.

“We were engaged a month ago too,” Illya said. “So in a comparison this is very well-thought-of.”

Napoleon shook his head, thinking they were crazy, and glanced at his watch. “It’s almost time,” he said.

Illya twisted his wrist on Gaby’s shoulder in order to see his own watch. Gaby’s right hand slipped under his arm when her body twisted against him. It wrapped across his back naturally. Illya didn’t mind if somebody saw. Most of the people he didn’t even know so it didn’t really matter what they saw. Somebody shouted that it was one minute before midnight.

Napoleon left to get himself a drink, and to grab somebody to kiss when the year changed. He didn’t understand what kind of crazy people would get engaged after a month. He had assumed Peril would never actually find anybody because he was too weird for that. But now Gaby seemed to like him. That probably made her equally weird. She merely covered it better. Or maybe she didn’t even cover it that well. Napoleon wasn’t sure anymore.

“We should probably wait with the marriage,” Gaby suspected and tilted her head up to look at Illya. “Get to know each other properly first.”

It was nice to get to know all the things their apartment hadn't told them. Now she knew how he had gotten his scar and what kind of women he had dated before her. He knew why she had troubles sleeping and what kind of things she wanted from the future. Illya knew what ballet slippers felt against the small of his back and Gaby knew what friction burns on the small of her back felt like. They still radiated heat under her orange dress.

“Yes,” Illya agreed. “There is no rush.”

Gaby set her glass on the desk and turned herself to face Illya. Her hand swiped his back when she pulled it away, traveled up his lapel, and gently curled onto his neck. The other hand mirrored the movements. She set her legs between his legs and stepped against him. When he sat on the edge of the desk and she stood in her high heels she was a little taller. His hand caressed her sides and took hold of her when somebody started to count down from thirty.

“No rush,” Gaby said. “We can wait.”

Illya hummed and his palms smoothed her back, held her near. “Waiting with you sounds good.”

Gaby smiled and kissed him when there were still seven seconds left before midnight. She wrapped her hands on his neck and Illya pulled her firmly against him. The New Year's well-wishes and music were muffled somewhere in the background. The world around them went silent, slowed down, and and finally stopped existing with neither caring about it. Illya could feel her kisses in his stomach, flickering inside of him like there was a flame burning in him. He tasted the sharp champagne in her kiss and her own sweet taste. The first minutes of the year disappeared somewhere while they kissed and both agreed that those were some very good minutes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They married on February 9th.

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this advent calendar even when there wasn't spies. There reason was (which I couldn't explain in the beginning without spoiling) that it was already an AU because they hadn't met before and it was meeting each other story. So even if there would have been spies that wouldn't fit in the movies timeline anyway. And it was supposed to be something easy to read everyday and if they would've been spies I feel that would've added so much more problems to be solved and lot more "well, we have a agent who has an amnesia ant that is sort of a problem" situations and the chapters would have grew bigger and more serious. And it was supposed to be just domestic fluff. And that is the reason why no spies. Still I feel like there was spying and being undercover.
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments, those have really made my December <3
> 
> And as always, a huge thanks to [MollokoPlus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MollokoPlus/pseuds/MollokoPlus) for beta reading for me. You should all be thankful, my works would look horrible without her. Usually when I get a fic or chapter back I'll pretty much publish it right away, but this time I had time so I may have made some changes, so if there is mistakes, that is there reason: me still poking things when the beta reading was already done and just hoping that I didn't made that much new mistakes.


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